


The Devil You Know

by frogfarm



Series: Dexter the Vampire Slayer: Devil's Dance [1]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Dexter (TV)
Genre: Coming of Age, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2020-07-28 23:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 80,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: Post-Dexter 5x12, "The Big One"; post-Buffy 7x22, "Chosen"; post-Angel 5x11, "Damage". Dexter POV.Miami under moonlight can be murder. But when the dead start to walk and demons come out to play, forensic analyst Dexter Morgan -- an off-hours serial killer of criminals who slip through the cracks -- finds himself caught up in the impossible. Astor has returned, with stunning supernatural powers and dreams of awful portents to come. And the latest new player in town is a dead ringer for her dead mother. As father and stepdaughter learn more of the deadly new secret world they've stumbled into -- a world of vampires, of Slayers, and forces of darkness -- Dexter can see he's coming to a crossroads. But is it too late to choose the right path?"Crazy good work.""Really great drama and interpersonal moments.""Creepy, occasionally funny, and a mess of ugly emotions, exactly as a Buffy/Dexter crossover should be!"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is currently unfinished, but about 75% complete. I very rarely post works in progress, but I've always liked this idea and am tired of it sitting around on my hard drive, seen only by me. Here's hoping this inspires the rest of the story to come out of hiding.
> 
> **Update, June 2020:** After taking some time off, I'm back with a vengeance -- five new chapters in the last month, looks like four to go. I'm having more fun with each and every update, and I hope you are too.
> 
> **Update, July 2020:** And my tale is told. Look for the sequel, coming soon.
> 
> **  
**  
**  
_Dedicated to my own father, who I lost partway through._  
**  
**  
**

The first warning sign should have been Astor showing up on my doorstep.

Again.

She was standing outside my apartment door as I stood in the doorway. The house had finally been sold. The house I once shared with her mother. The house where her mother was murdered. Of course the rest of the family would always blame me, and the real tragedy was that they would never know how right they were. My fault, my murder. Homicide by hubris; committed by proxy. My only passion in life had destroyed the only thing I ever loved.

"Are you still shoplifting?"

A cool stare regards me from the rings of goth eyeliner. "Are you still seeing your tenant?"

There's an edge of disrespect to that last word that makes my hackles rise. "She's gone."

"Oh -- right." The tension increases around the corners of her eyes and mouth. "She was nice."

She doesn't say, but I can tell she's sorry. I survey her thin and shivering form. It's a cold night for a Miami summer, and a track sweatshirt and loose jeans doesn't offer much protection. At least the running shoes are practical. As is the small rucksack slung over one shoulder, her normally loose and rather long hair tied back in a ponytail. She's not quite fidgeting; like she wants to look over her shoulder and won't if I'm watching.

"Can I come in?"

I nod and step back, keeping my hands where she can see them. "Where's Cody?"

"Still with Grandma and Grandpa." She wears a look of relief as she crosses the threshold. "I told them I was coming here. You can call and ask."

"I will. First things first." I shut the door and direct her to sit on one of the kitchen stools. "Can I see the bag?"

Slowly, she pulls the strap from her shoulder and holds it out. I accept with an internally raised eyebrow, but things only grow more mysterious as I check the contents. A few days change of clothes. A metal water bottle; a handful of jerky and granola bars.

"Is anyone following you?"

"No --" She looks away, frustrated. "I don't know."

"Would anyone have a reason to?"

That gets a hint of anger, but she remains calm. "Not that I know."

"Do I need to see anything else you might be carrying?"

I can't tell if her anger is actually directed at me. One of the downsides of a lack of humanity. But she stands and empties the pockets of her jeans, not looking at me. A debit card from deep in the oversized watch pocket. A knife in the front -- regular folding model, fit for hunters, decent quality. I notice again how baggy the jeans are compared to current styles; not falling off the hips, but loose enough to allow freedom of movement. And pockets deep enough to hold rather large items.

Like the object Astor is pulling from her back pocket and setting on the counter with a wooden clunk.

That's a joke. Which is odd, for downbeat deliberate Dexter. And because said object is literally made of wood: A smooth, hand-whittled cylinder about ten inches long and three across, honed at one end to a distinctive and deadly point.

"I know what this looks like," she says.

"Not yet." I hold up one hand and try for a serious look without intimidating. It seems to have the desired effect as I cross the kitchen to the phone on the wall. Trust, but verify.

The call itself is awkward as always, but sufficient to assuage any worries I might have had about the veracity of her story. Especially when Astor steps forward and asks to speak with her grandmother, without a shade of deception in her eyes. I pretend not to listen as she goes from standoffish to outright affectionate, then to complete adoration when her little brother comes on the line. I think I feel a pang at the thought of Cody, and the next thing I know I'm out in the living room, staring up at the vent on the wall behind which lies my treasured trophy case of blood slides.

"He wanted to talk to you." Astor's voice comes from behind me. "I convinced him you were still really broken up over Mom."

"That was..." Somehow I realize _thoughtful_ may not be the best choice of words. "Kind of you."

A dry and humorless laugh is her only response. I turn around to see in her eyes all the lingering anger and depression I'd expect from a girl her age, in her damn near disastrous debacle of dire circumstance. Which causes a thought to occur.

"How'd you convince them to let a teenage girl stay alone with a grown man and no supervision?"

I'm not sure if I'm expecting her to explode with offense and outrage. Instead, the corner of her mouth tweaks up a tad. Apparently my instinct was the right one. Maybe I'm getting better at this emotion thing.

"Easy." Her eyes sparkle. "I told them if anyone at Miami Metro was a child molester, it was probably Vince Masuka."

I have to fight the smile. "That's not very nice."

"I wouldn't say it to him." Astor has the good grace to look abashed. Or so some might describe it.

"You can sleep on the couch for now. Just don't be surprised if Deb falls on you in the middle of the night." Astor looks confused, and I clarify. "She sometimes comes over and crashes there. Literally."

I double-check the locks on the door before I retire for the night. It's times like this I miss living in Rita's old house. An apartment typically only has one way in and out, not counting windows. Defending multiple points of entry might seem like a downside, but it's the price you pay for having multiple escape routes.

I think about these things and more as I go round and kill the lights, leaving the hallway on. Astor's curled up under the blanket when I check on her, facing the back of the couch. I hazard a hailing.

"Good night." 

For a moment I think she won't respond. 

"Good night, Dexter." Her voice is soft. It makes me think of Rita in my arms. "And thank you."

_Don't thank me yet,_ I want to say.

Sleep doesn't come easy. So hard, in fact, that an hour later I'm still lying on my back staring at the ceiling with murder very much on my mind. Instead of sheep, counting all the ways in which indulging my desires would be a bad idea.

The kind that got her mother killed.

I think of the weeks ahead. Of the logistics involved in keeping a depressed and potentially violent teenage girl under the same roof, all while trying to conceal my nocturnal hobbies. Rita's children had made for good cover while she was alive, and I'd grown to feel for them what I thought might be affection. But in the wake of her murder, I'd been more than happy to allow my heart to harden over. It had taken Lumen to break me once more out of my shell. Now she was gone, her shattered psyche at least repaired enough that she could never look at me the same way again.

Harrison was still a child. But Astor was reaching that inconvenient age. The independent age, when kids start to ask even more awkward questions. Trying to start having lives of their own.

I think about doing pushups. I breathe slow and deep, running through a mental catalog of everything on my equipment checklist. _Scalpel._

_Knife._

_Syringe..._

By the second run through, I'm gone.


	2. Chapter 2

The smell of bacon penetrates the haze of sleep. I remember Astor, clearly up before me. As usual, I don't remember my dreams.

I make more noise than necessary getting cleaned up and dressed. By the time I emerge there are pancakes on the counter and Harrison has been installed at the table with his own plate. Astor is wearing a fresh set of clothes in the same utilitarian style as last night, all darker fabrics than I'm used to seeing on her. At least she hasn't gone full goth.

"Not that I don't appreciate someone else making breakfast," I say, spooning mashed raspberries over my short stack. "But did you plan on being here for the whole summer?"

"I don't know." She manages to make eye contact, more from concentrating on inhaling her own food than any apparent subterfuge. "I figured if you didn't throw me out, I'd just...take it one day at a time."

"I only ask because it can get awfully boring around here." I pour my orange juice, noting with approval her addition of a splash of grapefruit. "You might want to think about looking for a part-time job."

She blinks, momentarily stricken. "You want me to pay rent?"

"What? No." I shake my head to drive it home. "No, that's not even...forget it."

"Forgotten." She returns to her pancakes, giving Harrison a brief smile across the table. He coos and waves his spoon in response.

"But since you're here to watch him," I say, "I might work late. I'll try not to wake you."

"I've been staying up late myself." And she looks it, paler than ever. "Kind of hard to sleep."

"I know the feeling." I search her eyes for some sort of hidden meaning. "You going to be all right with Harrison?"

"Don't worry." Her lip firms with resolve. "I won't let anything happen to him."

I search around for an appropriate consolation. "Want to do something this weekend? Maybe go out on the boat?"

"I'll think about it." Her look says what the answer will probably be. Still, at least she's being polite.

So far it's an improvement over that brief period of acting out that led to my putting a severe bruising on a man's liver and kidneys. Given the evidence, I'm still waiting for a possible psychotic older boyfriend -- or wannabe -- to come out of nowhere. That's all I need. Some half-crazed adolescent hopped up on hormones, trying to get the drop on me with a sucker punch.

Luckily, it's a slow day at work. Slow enough that I let slip to Vince that Astor is staying with me.

"Oh, Rita's girl? Yeah, I remember seeing her at Harrison's birthday party." Vince doesn't even sound the least bit lecherous. I'm a little shocked. "How's she holding up? You know -- with her mom gone?"

"About like you'd expect." I give him the Godfather hands -- _What can you do?_

"Shit." He winces. "Lemme know if I can help."

"I will. Thanks."

He returns to his workstation as I resume cataloguing. I'm just getting into the rhythm when the next photograph flashes up on my screen. And this one is particularly violent and bloody.

So much so, it's like a memory.

  


* * *

  


_Another tragic Miami sunset. Tragic for its impermanent beauty, which I, Dutifully Dedicated Dexter, had been enjoying until the perils of being on call forced me to abandon my post. My tentative family were naturally quite disappointed, although Cody and Astor seemed more aggrieved at missing a rare opportunity for night fishing. Rita, per her usual priorities, focused only on wishing me back soon, safe and sound._

_"Don't worry." I work the muscles in my face to make a smile, to plant a kiss upon her cheek. "By the time they call me in, the bad guys are long gone."_

_"You could stab them with your scalpel!" Cody pipes up._

_"Nah." I cut in before Rita can express her obvious shock and dismay. "Remember the red thread?"_

_Cody's head bobs with enthusiasm. "You make a map with it."_

_"That's right." I smile and ruffle the feathering of his hair. "And then my co-workers -- the guys with the guns --"_

_"They follow the map."_

_"Exactly right."_

_Still, I muse as I pull up and switch off the engine. I could conceivably strangle someone. Probably faster to make them choke on it. Or slice their carotid, if the thread was sufficiently thin and strong --_

_"Howdy." Masuka sends a cheery wave._

_"I was just thinking you're one of the few people I can really talk to." I nod at his oversized Hawaiian shirt and matching shorts. "Then I saw that."_

_"This is my ironic relaxing around the house uniform. No criticism allowed."_

_I hold back an immediate response. In actuality, when it comes to making casual conversation, Angel's the only guy on the force I don't seem to have too much of a problem with. More importantly, I never know how much small talk I have in me at any given moment. Best not to exhaust my reserves._

_"Watch your feet." Vince nods at the stain on the mantel of the doorway as we cross the threshold. "Meet the first of today's satisfied customers."_

_I pretend to think. "Looks like he's spread a little thin."_

_Vince snorts like a hyena I heard on the Discovery channel. "Wait'll you see the main course."_

_"Give me the Cliff's notes."_

_"Coyotes." Vince grins. "Go ahead. Ask me."_

_"I take it you're not describing the cause of death."_

_"Nope -- that's our victims. Perp might be a fellow smuggler."_

_I'm barely listening as I note the unusual splatter characteristics. The savagery on display gets my initial attention, but as I proceed I can discern a touch of cool, elegant precision in the strokes. Before long the others have wandered away and the entire cordoned off area is festooned with crimson threads, hovering in the air. I finish supervising photography, guzzling half a bottle of water as something tickles under my spine. _

_It's roasting when I step outside for some fresh air. The back yard is tiny, fully enclosed by brick walls. I'm this close to pouring the rest of the water bottle over my head when the tickle below grows stronger. I turn toward the dumpster in the corner and venture a greeting._

_"Hello."_

_The head that pokes out is female. Late teens or early twenties. Brunette; long hair, not well maintained, but not filthy or matted. And a level of crazy in her eyes that despite all my long years of experience, is utterly new._

_"Hello." She offers a tentative smile, inching out from behind the dumpster. I can hear the squelch of moisture from her sneakers, leaving bloody prints behind. Red lines run across her face and shirt, precisely matching the map I've constructed._

_"Did they hurt you?" It's the only thing I can think to say. She's getting closer to the wall, and I'm not sure what her next move will be. I'd hate to see someone hurt themselves trying to get away._

_"No." She smiles again, and waves. "But I have to go now."_

_Then she turns around, crouches, and leaps up and over an eight foot wall._

  


* * *

  


The so-called victims had turned out to be pretty low on the scum ladder. More than most crews, they supplemented their income with what they convinced the girls and women to let them take in trade. Their convincing often consisted of outright coercion, and when it came to disposing of the occasional body, they apparently had it down to a system.

That had been over a year ago. I'd left the incident out of my report, and had no reason to recall it. Looking back, it still seems like something impossible.

But what I'm looking at right now on my monitor definitely reminds me of the work of that strange girl, the one lurking behind the dumpster. It's the victim that doesn't fit the pattern. From the scant handful of evidence, the dead man himself wasn't a smuggler, but a part of the latest group being smuggled. Apparently my pretty, crazy young killer is an equal opportunist.

In between verifying catalog entries, I spend the rest of the day comparing files from the previous case. The resemblance to this latest one is striking, but nothing anyone else would have noticed. Contrary to what some people think, I'm not the only blood geek on the force. Whoever took these photos hadn't bothered to consult with me. If I hadn't been cleaning up the database, the only way I would have seen them was by getting called in for a second opinion.

Vince waves from the doorway. "Still on for bowling?"

"Shit." I'm less annoyed by potential socializing and more that I let something, anything, slip my mind. The devil is in the details. "I forgot about Astor."

"Bring her along." Vince raises his hand, in a gesture of _Scout's honor_. "I promise to keep the dirty jokes to a minimum."

"I believe you." I do, actually. "She's going through one of those dark periods. I want to give it a few days before she has to deal with anyone else."

It turns out to be a few days for me as well. Two days really, and two nights, but it feels far longer as I plot a map of violent crimes occurring around the two appearances of my prime suspect: One confirmed, one assumed. Harry is silent despite the way I'm jumping the gun, knowing next to nothing about this killer or her motives. Other than the fact that she can put an Olympic vaulter to shame without a pole? All I know is one thing.

I have to meet this girl.


	3. Chapter 3

Two nights later, my already skewed world turns upside down. Not to mention inside out.

Before Astor came to town, I'd been planning my next case to wrap up. As in who I was going to wrap up in plastic and confront with their crimes before I bled them out and chopped up their corpse. Hypocritical, yes. Also very cathartic.

But in all the commotion, my locked case is still in the Mommymobile, as Lieutenant LaGuerta termed it, and full of supplies. Very sloppy of me. I've been waiting for a good time to move everything in from the car, when fate intervenes.

An unplanned stop at a corner stand for a pulled pork sandwich is just the thing to lift my spirits. It's in a less upscale neighborhood, but I've been here before and I'm not concerned for my safety, even when I tip the cook generously. I'm halfway through my meal, licking the paper in as genteel a manner as I can muster, when I notice something.

Not that I can tell what it is. But the feeling only grows stronger as I linger and fuss, striking up a conversation with the cook and continuing to scan the area. Half the streetlights are burned out or broken. Down the block I spy a lone hooker taking advantage of one of the safe spots, surrounded by a halo of sodium glare.

Eventually I give up. I've gotten back in the car and am pulling out when I realize I'm heading the wrong way. Instead of turning around, I keep going. Follow my nose, or so it seems, until I'm far off the beaten track; into the dead industrial zone, where only the hardcore suicidal dare to tread. I find what seems like a good spot and kill the engine, peering around, letting my eyes adjust. 

There.

The faint sound of laughter.

The kind that takes pleasure in terror.

It's coming from the half-crumbled main building ahead. Momentarily I wish for darker clothing, before remembering to be thankful for what I do have. Which is two loaded syringes, a roll of plastic, a matching roll of duck tape, and what I think will be my new favorite knife. Assuming I get the chance to use it.

I'm walking a tightrope as far as the Code is concerned. But the sounds as I approach the building do nothing to dissuade me from my destination. And when I find a darkened window missing its corner pane, the sight inside matches what I'm hearing: A young man in a sport jacket and slacks, tormenting another in jeans and a T-shirt. Practically playing with him, like a pig fattened for the kill. 

I only watch for a moment before my mind is made up. It takes another to station myself on the tiny bit of roof above the front entranceway. There are plenty of rocks up here. I find the biggest, weighing stone in hand and options in my mind.

Then my quarry crouches, preparing to lunge. The finality in his posture, the desperation on the face of his prey, all combine in the moment to make my decision.

I open my fingers.

The concrete rings, echoing through the massive empty space. My dropped pebble bounces from wall to wall as it fades into nothing but I'm not looking through the window. I'm looking straight down, holding my breath and two full syringes of M-99. And still Harry is silent in my head.

I hear footsteps behind, then directly underneath. The pause is long enough my breath begins to burn in my lungs. Though I haven't made a sound, I wonder if he can hear me.

Then he steps into my line of sight.

I let him have it with both barrels. One on either side, Little Chino-style. Better safe than sorry --

The roar of pain and outraged surprise nearly deafens me. I don't have time to pull back before a powerful grip has me by the forearms, hurling me to the ground.

I barely manage an awkward somersault to avoid a nasty landing, but there are still scrapes and bruises galore to be had as I tuck into a ball and roll. Any normal person would be out by now from the M-99 and I still hear him moving toward me, staggering a stutter-step as growls and snarls come closer out of the dark. I'm just thinking this may have been a bigger mistake than I could have dreamed when I realize they're growing fainter as well, even as they draw closer still. The figure of a man resolves itself in my vision it sways gently back and forth, before finally collapsing.

I realize my heart is actually beating faster as I survey the body. And not just from exertion. I'm not sure what my eyes just saw -- a distorted face? An extra pair of teeth?

Whatever it was. A trick of the light. Just an ordinary, reasonably good-looking, eminently forgettable young man, passed out at my feet.

I wrestle with rationality, but conscience quickly wins out. The victim is lying on his side when I enter the building, and I can hear the inward hiss of his breath, see the way his trembling body tenses at the sound of my approaching footsteps.

"Please!" A pitiful sob escapes his lips as I grab him from behind. I cover his eyes, forcing him upright.

"Can you walk?"

He freezes in my grasp.

"I --" He swallows a whimper of pain as he tests his bad foot. "I think so."

I point him in the right direction and let go. "Run."

Considering his injuries, he makes pretty good time. There's another little shriek as he hits the doorway, spying the unconscious form of his former captor lying on the ground, and he stumbles and skids before hightailing it out of there.

I drag said former captor inside the building double time, hoisting him onto a table before running back to the car for the rest of my supplies. A fiendish glee suffuses my being, the euphoric rush flooding my veins as I secure his body and start the mummification process. Not literally -- I've never been interested in torture per se. Though it might be amusing to actually kill someone by removing their brain through their nose. I chuckle as I rip off his shirt and stuff it into his mouth, strapping each limb down tight with a double wrap of fibrous packing tape. Another hard earned lesson, courtesy of Little Chino.

I grab his wrist and give a hearty tug. Sufficiently satisfied at the lack of give, I heave a sigh and sink down on a nearby chair, contemplating the knife in my hand. I still can't believe Harry hasn't chimed in by now. This entire evening has been one blatant Code violation after another.

As I think of Astor, I realize my cell phone is still out in the car. I'm on my feet, fully intending to go and fetch it just in case, when I hear a noise. I cock my head and peer from side to side before realizing it's the sound of something tearing.

I turn around to see eyes blazing with hatred. Saliva runs from the corner of my captive's mouth as he bites down on his shirt, every last muscle and vein standing out as he rages against my impromptu restraints. And somehow, little by little, the tape is actually giving way.

By now I'm annoyed, and more than a bit curious. I rap him hard on the forehead with the butt of the knife.

"Cut that out."

That gets his attention. He stares up at me, upside down, jaw working in silence as he takes in the sight of me and my blade. 

"You shouldn't even be awake right now." I reconsider. "Well, actually -- you should. And what I should be doing, is showing you why you're here. A catalog of all your sins."

It takes a moment to work out the muffled sound coming from behind the gag. But it's regular, and his eyes are scrunching shut like he's having trouble breathing, and yes, this man is _laughing_ at me. Which is not unheard of, in my line of work, but far from a regular occurrence.

"And you'd ask who I am, and why I'm doing this. And I'd make a few cryptic statements." I run my thumb down the edge of the blade. "Maybe compare myself to you."

He's not laughing any more. His entire body is quivering like a greyhound at the gate; his eyes are bright and shining, locked upon the thin red line welling up on my thumb.

"But none of that matters. Because the only thing that matters?" I raise the blade high. "I saw what you did."

His body is utterly still as he stares up at me.

"And you're going to die."

The tip descends in a perfect arc.

I can almost hear it hiss through the air before it meets flesh and sinks in, the hilt coming to rest against his chest. I wonder who he was, briefly, as he stares up in what seems like puzzlement and dismay. A grunt and a little sigh escape him, as does his final breath.

Then tearing becomes ripping. Like a stubborn bag of potato chips, finally giving way.

His hand is reaching out for mine.

The blade pulls free from his chest right as his wrist comes into the center of my field of vision. It's all I see as I put everything into a backhand stroke, in a perfectly executed on-the-fly amputation.

I'm expecting the muffled howl of pain. What I'm not expecting is to realize two things simultaneously. One is that rather than a fountain of blood from his wildly flailing wrist, there isn't a single drop. Except even this pales beside the fact of his face melting like wax, that bellowing roar from a mouth barely contained by a few scraps of shirt in those wide stretched jaws, those impossibly long sharp teeth.

_Okay,_ I have time to think. _This is new._

Then the other hand is reaching.

He's in the process of trying to sit up, so this blow isn't as clean. It's still enough to send his right hand sailing off into the darkness to join the left. And still those cleanly severed stumps are straining toward my unbelieving eyes, every nerve and vessel cleanly outlined in bloodless perfection. My brother would have called it a masterpiece.

I slam the knife deep in his thorax. He starts to laugh again, gagging on soaked and shredded fabric as his stumps brush my face.

I grab his right arm and turn toward his head, fighting that inhuman strength until his elbow gives way with a gratifying snap. He's still trying to reach me with it as I walk around to the other side and repeat the process. This time he knows it's coming, and fights even harder until I dig my fingers deep in his armpit and give a good hard tickle. The maniacal shriek that accompanies his body snapping taut, arching toward the ceiling like a pulled bowstring, is only outmatched by the subsequent scream as his other elbow gives way.

"I said..."

I pull the knife free once more. And the fear in those eyes as I raise the blade overhead tells me everything I need to know.

"_Cut it out._" 

With every bit of my arm behind it, my new favorite knife earns its title in a flying finish. It's just heavy enough to do the job in one stroke: Slices straight through skin, muscle and esophageal tissue; glances off bone to be guided between what I suspect are C3 and C4, completing its downward journey as it meets the table beneath his neck with a solid thunk of impact.

I barely have time to relish the anguished expression on his face before it crumbles like sand.

Along with the rest of his body. Every scrap of clothing, down to the scraps of shirt still in his mouth, joins him in the process of disincorporation. In the space of half a second he's an outline of a man, frozen in silent agony.

Then the dust collapses, and swirls away.

At least this means less cleanup.

But what in the hell just happened?

  


* * *

  


The apartment complex is a virtual graveyard as I pull into my assigned parking space. For the third time since getting into the car I check my clothes, my face in the mirror. Then I sigh, take a deep breath, and disembark with killing satchel in hand.

As I pass the swimming pool, I'm still thinking on how to get by Astor if she happens to be awake. But my senses tingle as peripheral vision catches someone inside the fenced-off area. My eyes dart left and take in a brunette in a bikini, stretched out on a lounge chair, wearing completely unnecessary sunglasses.

I debate on whether I should tell her the pool's closed. Then I forget her as I climb the stairs. My shoulder still hurts where that guy wrenched it when he threw me, and landing on it right afterward didn't help.

I pause with my key in the lock. Surely that couldn't have been -- but no. Even cursory observation under dim lighting, even with that brief appearance of the original, it's not the blood-soaked girl from last year. I'm not a hundred percent; in fact, in my less sane moments I sometimes wish for photographic memory, before remembering all the things I'd love to forget. But pretty sure. The nose and chin don't match, and those are harder to fake. 

At least Harrison is at Deb's tonight. I have to hand it to my sister, given her obvious lack of comfort with kids. Then again, extraordinary circumstances tend to broaden one's horizons.

The nightlight I've installed casts a feeble glow in a semi-circle as I shut the door behind me. I can just make out Astor on the couch, her blanket in a crumpled heap on the floor. She's on her side, her back to me, muttering low and occasionally giving a little twitch. 

I kneel and gather the blanket, in my absolute most silent mode. I'm holding my breath as I drape it over her trembling form. Sweatpants and T-shirt, she's half- curled up in a fetal position, knees drawn up, fists clutched tight against her belly. I avert my gaze as I finish tucking her in, gentle as can be.

I begin to stand. 

She sits up with a guttural scream.

I catch hold of her wrist. 

Picture: Father and stepdaughter, staring at one another. Together, realizing a couple of things.

One: The stake in her hand might have killed me.

Two: Make that _would_. Even if this is the worst possible moment for a pun. Because Astor, rather than having the strength of a slightly built adolescent girl in average physical condition, seems to be more on the level of a bull elephant.

I'd find both of these points much more fascinating if her wooden weapon with its own deadly sharpened point wasn't hovering less than an inch from my own very vulnerable-feeling chest. As well as the fact that

Three: This girl is so strong that I wouldn't have a chance of stopping her. That is, if she hadn't stopped on her own at the last second. Her eyes are huge, her mouth falling open aghast at what she's almost done.

"Oh my God --" Her throat works in spasms, her grip loosening. Not enough to drop the stake. "I'm so sorry. Please, don't --"

"Quiet." Which I am. Not ominously so, just more calm than a normal person might expect in this scenario. Astor swallows again, but obeys.

I release my own grasp. "We need to work on your reflexes."

She blinks, fear replaced with confusion. "What?"

"You don't want to stake the wrong person, do you?"

Her eyes narrow a fraction. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Perish the thought." I stand and turn, ignoring every learned instinct -- an oxymoron if there ever was one -- feeling her watching as I cross the room to the hallway. I stop with my hand on the wall.

"I don't know if your mom ever told you this." I'm listening to my own voice, like a radio broadcasting in my head. "But my childhood...wasn't great."

She doesn't say anything. I can hear her breathing, a slight hitch in her chest.

"My dad...he wasn't the best. But he did his best. With me." I struggle for something safe, not overly sanitized or saccharine. "I want to do that for you. Without his mistakes."

"Oh." She falters. I'm wondering whether she'll say anything more, when she does. "Okay."

"Good." I allow myself the tiniest smile. "Your training starts tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" A hint of teenage outrage rears its head.

"Six o'clock. On the dot." I pause for effect. "And no pancakes."

Her only reply is a wordless growl.


	4. Chapter 4

With no rational explanation forthcoming, I spend the entire night and next morning feeling alternately aggravated and baffled. I hide it well, especially during Astor's first workout. We're not even two minutes in when she realizes I'm not treating her like a normal girl, instead pushing her obvious superior strength to its limits.

Even after this sinks in, I can tell she's still holding back. It's like we both know what's going on, but neither actually wants to mention the bull elephant in the room. I consider it quite the achievement that I manage to get her to break a sweat before we're through. Though the prospect of actual combat is daunting, regardless of her lack of skill. I think I managed to avoid serious bruising, but I'll be feeling this for the next few days. Already I'm rethinking my strategy.

I drop her off at Deb's place, staying just long enough to say hi to Harrison, who's apparently been up since well before dawn. By the time I arrive at Miami Metro, I'm back to ruminating on the impossible. Or at least what I've always assumed to be impossible, and thought no more of. When a demand comes in for a spatter report I nearly sing out in gratitude. Although I have no idea who to thank. God's supposed to be responsible, but I don't think He'd approve.

"Damn." For once, Vince seems at a loss for words. He surveys the photos with a genuinely sickened expression.

"Yeah." A tiny, flaming core of what must be anger begins to bubble in my guts. It's like a hunk of sodium dropped into a waterglass.

"Whoever did this took their time," I note. "Enjoyed their work."

"I'll get lunch." Vince looks away, shaking his head. "Want anything?"

"Thanks, but Astor's making dinner. Don't want to spoil my appetite."

Vince gives me a sympathetic look as he departs. It takes a second to remember he's probably sorry for me because of Rita's death. Then I have to close my eyes and breathe, fighting a headache. I can almost feel her hands upon my shoulders, the softness of her kiss on my temple.

Unusually for me, I'm glad to be rid of other observers as I run off hard copies and spread them out over the table. It's not the brutal pleasure on display in these murders. Far from it, after everything I've seen in my life. Rather, it's because I find myself again comparing them to the suspected kills of my wall jumping girl. Except I keep coming up empty. This is nothing like that brutal efficiency. More importantly, there doesn't appear to be any sign of a weapon.

Someone likes to get their hands dirty.

I close my eyes once more, trying to conjure the image of Rita's face. It takes a moment. I'm just starting to wonder what's wrong when she's standing side by side with Lumen, both of them staring back at me as if I were a total stranger. 

_Dexter._ My name on her lips is a plea for her life. Blood wells up on her thigh, pours down her leg, spreading in a growing pool beneath her feet. _Why didn't you save me?_

_He could never save you._ Lumen's lips don't move but I hear her voice as clear as day as she stares me down. Rita crumbles to the ground as Lumen holds out her bloody hand; my shining gift to her clenched in trembling fingers.

_So he tried to save me._

I open my eyes before I can cry out.

Before I leave the station, I spend the last half hour deep in research. Anything inexplicable that smacks of the slightest whiff of the supernatural, with particular focus on incidents with a distinctly vampiric flavor. Saying the V-word -- even thinking it, or any variation thereof -- does not make me feel any more in control of the situation.

What does, is getting back to a proper routine. And in the absence of that?

A plan to catch a killer.

  


* * *

  


I hit downtown Miami just as the sun begins to set. The glitz and bling are blinding under the dazzling lights of the club scene, forcing me to don a decidedly un-Dexterish pair of dark sunglasses. It helps to hide my disdain for the crude peacocking on display from both sexes, from their clownish appearance to the artifice dripping from every word and gesture. It all does nothing for me. Except to remind me of all the reasons I never felt human.

Even in Rita's arms.

Not for the first time, I wonder what my dead wife's reaction would have been if she had ever discovered the true nature of my addiction. At least tonight, Deb has taken pity on me; Astor is safe and sound at her aunt's apartment, the two of them watching Harrison and gorging on pizza. The best part was I didn't even need to ask -- Deb volunteered. Hence, tonight's night out on the town for damaged and disobedient Dexter, for whom the sound of opportunity knocking definitely drowns out any lectures from dear old Dad.

I make it past the worst of the crowd and around the corner, where the din and hub have died down a bit. Then I order espresso and take up position at the far end of the street cafe, on the edge of the shadows; my back to the wall, with a clear view of the corner.

Three missing persons this week, all of them in their twenties, might not be enough to tip the authorities. But combined with my newly found pattern recognition, the existing data shows things in a different light. Based on my quick and dirty algorithm, this location should be a prime spot. Good hunting grounds. 

For them, and for me. Assuming I believed in them.

But I've replayed every moment of that encounter in my mind. And between the impossible events of last Thursday and the wooden stake in my stepdaughter's back pocket, I still feel foolish making and carrying my own. I also feel just a little bit safer.

I haven't broached the subject with Astor.

Not until I can do it without sounding like a lunatic.

The evening wears on, punctuated by espresso refills and toilet breaks. Groups of people come and go, staggering around the corner fresh from the bar, in search of a stiff drink to sober them up. Or a quick line in the bathroom. Or a quick sneak off into the shadows for a quick something else. I've toyed with the notion of pretending to read a book, but it seems like wasted effort. Even the lone barista pays me no heed in between orders, seemingly obsessed with his new smartphone. I'm on the verge of calling it a night.

Then a high-pitched giggle cuts the air like my favorite knife.

People often casually talk about blood freezing. And as something of an expert on the former, with a (deceased, by my hand) brother who specialized in the latter, I've apparently spent most of my life with ice in my own veins. But the birth of my son had awakened something new inside me, competing for attention with the Dark Passenger. And then the double impact of Rita's death, followed by Lumen's departure -- fleeing Miami for the comfort of her family, unable to face the cold reality of Dark and Damaged Dexter -- had left me almost missing those comparatively carefree early days. I had become a Real Boy, as well as the clumsy imitation I had already been -- and with all too real emotions.

The cold sensation slithering through my innards right now makes liquid nitrogen feel like a day at the beach. The nonchalant cruelty is something wholly new, perhaps the most unsettling thing. But the laugh itself is all too familar, and as they come round the corner it takes everything I have to remain seated, to keep my entire body from turning to focus on the woman draped on this man's arm and gazing up in rapt and mindless adoration.

My mind splits along separate tracks. The Dark Passenger, clinically observing that no matter how many uninhibited Halloweens had gone under the bridge since our relationship first began to involve actual sex, this is definitely Rita as I've never seen her before. Her tight, trim body practically spills out from a slinky red dress, her smiling face made up like a porcelain doll. And of course the rest of me is torn between the impossibility of her existence; the seeming reality of a woman I saw dead and buried now back among the living. Walking, talking, and pursuing mindless pleasure like all the rest of them.

Except the fawning all over this man she's hanging onto doesn't ring quite true. The more I watch as I pretend not to, the more I realize it's all an act. A very clever one. Though it could be even more subtle.

I stand and stretch, looking past them up the street. I check my watch, and then my phone as they amble past my table, cooing endearments to each other. Except he only has eyes for her body, and the look in hers screams something else entirely. I avert my own at the last second, covering my mouth in an exaggerated yawn. 

When I turn my head, they're gone. I can still hear them, making their way down the side alley. Having scoped out the area beforehand, I know it's a dead end. I don't like the idea of someone coming in behind and trapping me between.

_Remember the Code._ My eyes flick back and forth, up and down the deserted street. _Sure, it's not perfect. You've had to adapt. But it's kept you safe. Are you going to throw it all away on some passing hallucination?_

I remember the Code.

I remember Rita.

My feet carry me forward as her face turns to dust in my mind.

"Stay back." She's dragging his limp and twitching body into the shadows, the open cruelty in her gaze now fixed upon me as I enter the alley. "Or I play make a wish."

"And he's the wishbone?" My mouth is actually dry. There's a double smear of blood trickling down his neck and her eyes glitter in the dark. I'm still being torn two ways and now it's the cold logistics of staking this undead imitation of the woman I

_(loved?)_

I hesitate only a microsecond, but it's enough. In that moment, we both know she could have taken me down. And now there is puzzlement in those eyes, as she lets him fall to the ground.

"Just a little appetizer." She smiles, but it seems like a frown. Or perhaps it's the other way. "Hardly your concern."

"You'd be surprised." I've lost the advantage. I should be running. Instead the Dark Passenger is writhing in uncontained glee, itching for a real fight. It's kind of stupid that way.

My only consolation is the lack of any inconvenient nearby street cameras to record my potentially ignominious defeat. I don't know why I'm thinking of that as she drifts toward me, as if she's walking on air.

And stops. Cocks her head, so much like Rita I could almost --

"You know me."

"I --" Stop. Full stop. She still looks more puzzled than possessed of any real knowledge. Best to keep it that way. Best with any foe, let alone this one.

"Are we playing my game now, Grandmother?"

I realize this last utterance -- in what sounds like a poor Cockney accent, no less -- has come from what appears to be a younger woman, black hair and black dress, crouching at her feet. A delicate crimson smear stains the corner of her mouth as she stares back at me, cradling her partner's discarded meal in her arms.

As my vision of Rita opens her arms.

"Dear boy..."

I make the entrance to the alley by a literal hair.

Maybe I only imagine the feeling of fingers, brushing the tail of my shirt.

  


* * *

  


I sit in the parking lot for what seems like far too long. At least I'm not endlessly checking my face in the mirror. Instead I'm bifurcated, once more fixatedly following twin trails of death and destruction.

The part that wonders how in the hell Rita became a vampire.

And the terrified little boy, screaming for his mother.

The woman outside by the pool is there again. Drop dead gorgeous; definitely not the crazy brunette I remember all covered in blood. Though the Dark Passenger says this girl is no stranger to it.

"I've seen you around." I hazard a greeting as I pass by, casual as can be. "New neighbor?"

A scoff in return. "New lifeguard."

"Oh." I fumble a moment, distracted searching for my key. "Well -- best of luck."

She sounds secretly amused. "You too."

I let myself in without making too much noise. Unfortunately, it's not until then that I remember Astor's now staying here. I barely get my homemade stake into my back pocket before the table lamp comes on. Her thin form sits hunched over on the couch, the features of her face shrouded in shadow.

"You okay?" Somehow, I manage to sound like nothing's wrong.

"Dreams." She shakes her head. "Bloody."

"Can I get you something? Water?" I'm already headed for the kitchen, where I find a convenient drawer and stash the stake amongst some other wooden utensils. When I open the refrigerator, I note with approval Astor's refilling of the filtering water pitcher. Deb could learn a thing or two from this girl.

"Yeah. Please." She draws a shaky breath, exhales noisily as she sits back, staring at the ceiling. "And thank you."

"Don't mention it." I pour us both a tall cold one. Returning to the living room, I hand her the glass, offer mine in a toast. "To your health."

A little snort escapes through her nose, accompanied by a rueful smile. Still, she doesn't object as our glasses meet.

The water is unbelievably good. I have to stop before I drink too much, setting it back down.

"Actually, I'm feeling kind of hungry." I look at the clock. Half past three. "How would you feel about steak and eggs?"

"Oh God yes --" Astor coughs and covers her mouth. "I mean yes please."

I end up opening the bottle of wine in the refrigerator that Deb brought over last Christmas. I don't know why, except I want to have a drink. Just one. Against my every rule of self-preservation, I'm nonetheless finding myself enjoying it until I see Astor pouring her own glass.

"Just one," she replies, when I voice my objection. If by 'voice objection' you mean 'feebly and ineffectually protest'. Excellent parenting by dashing, debonair Dexter. Stellar work.

She doesn't push the issue. I'm breathing a sigh of relief as we wash up after, until what I can only assume is the _vino_ results in a tad too much _veritas_.

"I still kind of hate you."

I blink, wondering how to process this. I'm not sure whether to take offense. Or if I even should.

She looks away, hands wrist-deep in suds. "And I hate myself."

"Been there." I hand her a clean towel. "Which is worse?"

"I don't know." She looks at her hands like they belong to someone else. "For a while, I thought if she never met you...Mom would still be alive."

I blink again, perilously close to something resembling tears. "I've thought that too."

"And then I think about Paul." Her forearms tremble, fists clenched under the water's surface. "And how many more times it would have taken him to beat her to death."

A pleasant surge of righteous anger runs through me. The memory of swinging a frying pan. And how I first committed the great and glorious code violation of getting Emotionally Involved.

"I failed your mom." My voice is hollow in my ears. "I won't fail you. Not if I can help it."

"Dexter --" She falls silent. The only sound is the air conditioner, the creak of insects outside.

"Get some rest." I leave the kitchen, pausing in the hallway. "Tomorrow's going to be a busy day."

I can hear the pause before she speaks. "Why?"

The Dark Passenger smiles.

So do I.

"We've got work to do."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Dexter opens up more of himself to Astor, the enemy escalate matters to a horrifying new level, striking close to home.

"Bro, you know I love my only nephew to pieces." Deb chucks said nephew under his chin, prompting an enormous grin in return. "But you gotta get a fuckin' nanny."

"I don't like the idea of him being around strangers." I force my feet to remain still, feeling Harrison's tiny but growing hand in mine. "And do I need to start a swear jar for his college fund?"

"Are you fucking kid--" Deb breaks off in a growl of exasperation. Astor looks like she's about to giggle, and I'm not sure what sort of reaction that might provoke from Deb. Nor am I particularly eager to find out.

"We'll talk. Later." My sister levels a baleful glare that reminds me of Harry. "Seriously -- I can't keep doing this. Not unless you want me forever single."

"Bye, Aunt Deb." Astor seems about to leave it at that. Then she abruptly steps forward and gives Deb a hug. At first my sister looks startled, almost like I imagined myself the first time Rita felt comfortable enough to do it to me. Then she returns the squeeze, offering an awkward pat on the back as they separate.

Astor is smiling on the drive back as she plays peekaboo in the mirror with Harrison, securely buckled into the back seat. But her smile seems troubled. 

I wait until we've stopped at a light.

"So why do you have a stake?" My eyes remain on the road. My voice is of reasonable volume, my tone utterly bland and conversational. "And not the kind that goes with sunny side up."

From the corner of my vision, Astor shifts in her seat.

"Dreams." A single word, a single syllable. Equally casual on the surface.

The light has changed. I check both ways before proceeding. "Go on."

She doesn't respond right away. Until Harrison returns to looking out the window, less fascinated by his big sister's antics than by the rapid passage of the world outside our little metal and plastic shell.

"At first -- I thought it was because of Mom." I can hear her swallow. "That I was just...freaking out."

I consider offering some sort of sympathy. Almost immediately, I reconsider. Astor looks like she's trying not to grind her teeth as she chews on her thoughts.

It's her next words that throw me.

"Because I kept seeing her."

If she had told me this before last night, I'm not sure what my reaction would have been. As it is, I don't suddenly swerve off the road. I just have a brief flash before my eyes of suddenly swerving off the road.

"You mean --"

"Not for real." Her fingers twitch and stroke one another like she's trying not to let them clench. "In my dreams."

I manage to remain silent.

"So I tried one of Grandma's sleeping pills." She lowers her voice, joining Harrison in staring through the window at an older couple walking their dog. "But it didn't help, and -- I didn't want to take any more."

"Sensible." I curse my triteness. Remember, kids. Do what Dexter doesn't. Just say no.

"Then one day, I was sitting on the back step. I'd already bought that knife. I was just looking at the pile of brush they hadn't cleared away. And the next time I looked down..." Astor shrugs, still not looking at me.

I consider as I make the turn, smoothly backing into my parking space.

"If you saw your mom right now." Again, I reconsider. "Let's say tonight. If she showed up at our door, after dark -- what would you do?"

Astor's gaze falls to her right hand, resting on her thigh with the palm up. Her fingers, loose and relaxed, form slowly into a fist.

"I'd try to kill her."

The internal surge of joy from the Dark Passenger makes me feel rather giddy. Her knuckles aren't quite white, but I hear one crack.

I try to make it sound innocent. "Why?"

Astor pauses. The look on her face says this is the fatal Rubicon, and she almost falters before her face hardens, her young voice the same.

"Because it wouldn't be her."

I say no more. Too much to think about. And like always, too little time.

As we pass by the pool, I notice it's deserted. No lifeguard on duty today.

Harrison tugs at my pantleg. The look on his face tells me he suspects I won't be sticking around.

"I should be back by six. I'll text if I have to work late." I check my watch -- don't want to have to speed. "Call Deb if you need anything."

Before I can stop her, Astor sweeps into my arms. Which respond in reflexive imitation of her gesture, and I stand there a moment with her wrapped around my midsection, Harrison clinging to my leg. I'm not sure how long this is supposed to go on before it gets weird. As the kids say.

"Bye." Astor disengages and kneels to pick up Harrison, who returns my wave with considerably more enthusiasm than I can muster. At least I remember how to smile.

Even if it feels just as fake.

  


* * *

  


Once you have some idea what to look for, it's amazing how many murders start to look like vampires.

I have to remind myself that confirmation bias is a thing. As are many other things. Traps one has to avoid when engaging in, say, rigorous logical debate. Or structural engineering. Or hunting what may be literally the most dangerous game.

By all appearances, my quarry possesses the appetite and fundamental mindset of a wild animal. Driven to kill by the thirst for blood, night after endless night. But combining it with human intelligence seems truly diabolical. Talk about the worst of both worlds. 

My day at work -- when I'm not analyzing blood and trying to act normal -- is mostly spent planning this evening's festivities. Working with Astor on balance and reflexes should be slightly less hazardous to life and limb. Hopefully my own. I'm also looking forward to finding out if she has any other special abilities. Call me crazy (and by most people's definition, I certainly am) but I don't think it's unreasonable to suspect we've only scratched the surface.

Vince stops by my office after lunch to drop off a stack of manila folders. I grunt my thanks as I peer through the microscope. Still, I sense him lingering.

"How's Astor doing?"

"Better," I return automatically as I squint. Does that hair belong there?

"Glad to hear it." I hear a rustle of paper. "Listen, I know we talk a lot of shit at the bowling alley -- but I'm sure the guys would be happy to tone it down. You know -- if she wanted to join us some night."

"Tell that to my sister." I straighten up, wincing at the momentary protest from my shoulder. A miscalculation when Astor threw me had ended in my landing just wrong enough to aggravate the previous week's injury.

"She does cuss like a sailor with Tourette's." Vince gives a nostalgic sigh. "Of all the girls I've never slept with, I've learned the most from Deb."

"And you wonder why I keep my teenage stepdaughter confined to the apartment."

"I figured it was for the free babysitting." Vince chuckles, but the look on his face becomes surprisingly serious. "You know I'm kidding, right? Because if I'm ever out of line -- if you ever think my comments are inappropriate, all you have to do is --"

"I'll say something." I offer a reassuring nod and an upraised hand. "Go. And sin no more."

"Think I can manage that. For the next..." He checks his watch. "Two hours."

"Wow." I pretend to be impressed. "That long?"

"My friend?" He cocks one eyebrow high with a sagely nod. "Freaks come out at night."

His hyenalike laugh echoes down the hall in the wake of his exit.

I return to examining photos, more to put the images of sinning Vince far from my thoughts. No matter how weak someone may be -- or how strong -- it always comes down to the basics. But even most young humans need serious training to develop the true killer instinct. So far, and for all her inexplicable strength and durability, I've no reason to believe Astor is any different.

I finish the day's shift with a smile on my face, and a song in my heart.

For the first time, it doesn't only sound like murder.

  


* * *

  


"You want to know the best time to kick someone in the face?" I try not to sound overly professorial as I await an answer.

Astor regards me with hesitation and a dubious air. We've managed a two hour session with me pacing myself, working on escape techniques in between lessons on general strategy. The only positive aspect is the locale; the late hour has ensured that the health club where I maintain membership will be completely deserted. Unfortunately, this privacy has also allowed Astor the luxury of not holding back. I'm sure my second wind will arrive any moment.

"Is this about to turn into a Bruce Lee lesson where I end up on my ass again?"

"Language," I admonish. This earns the usual glare, but I've moved on.

"The answer is: When you're wearing steel toed boots. And your opponent --" I draw back my foot, looking down at an imaginary body. "Is flat on the ground at your feet."

"Sounds good to me." Astor nonetheless appears somewhat more cautious. I lower my foot and she relaxes just a little. Very little.

"So forget everything you ever learned from Hollywood," I conclude. "If you want to defend yourself -- and more -- then we'll continue. But you need to treat it seriously."

Her eyes are burning now with puzzlement, and curiosity. "What style is this?"

"Huh." I wonder at the question even as I'm working out the answer. "Guess you could call it a combination of aikido and shoot fighting. With a bit of good old fashioned street cop."

She ponders this, looking irritated as she attempts to flip her hair over her shoulder. It's a new style for her, tied in a single braid that hangs down her back. Should be much more convenient for our training sessions. It also brings a pang at yet another memory of Rita; I can see her mother in her even now, beginning to emerge in the features of the woman Astor will become. 

"Where did you learn it?" The question clearly has multiple layers.

"Mostly classes in college." Which is true. "It was a nice change of pace from all that science. The more you cram your head with information, you just want to turn your brain off for a while. Do something physical."

"I always thought you were kind of a geek." Her skeptical frown doesn't seem directed at me.

"Gotta keep in shape." I shrug, uncomfortable with the new direction things are taking. "I've never been much for team sports."

A low sound reaches my ears. I realize it's a chuckle.

"I guess Olivia was right."

I frown as I recall the relevant events of last year. Astor had run away with her friend; they had come here, whereupon I had found it necessary to beat a tattoo on the vital organs of the man dating her friend's mother. Another on my growing list of suicidally stupid and overly dramatic gestures.

"About?"

She looks at me sideways. Judging how much to reveal.

"After her mom's boyfriend took off," she says. "They never saw him again."

"Oh." My brain scrambles, calculating conversational trajectories. "Yeah?"

"She was convinced you had something to do with it." The look on Astor's face can only be described as troubled. By what, I'm not certain. Any uncertainty is hazardous to my health. The more uncertain, the more potentially fatal.

I hazard a halfway point. "What if I did?"

Astor's snort makes for a decent scoff. 

"You wouldn't hear any complaint from her. Or me." She holds her head high, but I still detect an element of shame. "I'm glad your friend saw what he did to her. I'm glad she said something."

"Me too." This seems an appropriate avenue for redirection. "It hasn't been easy for me. To...talk about my feelings."

Because for most of my life, I didn't have any feelings. Or they were buried so deep as to make no difference.

"When your mom was gone..."

The Dark Passenger coils within, a clear and obvious warning. I ignore it, along with all my own training; ignore the shade of Ghost Harry, frowning at me over Astor's shoulder in silent disapproval.

"I lost it."

That was putting it mildly. The impromptu murder in that filthy restroom had been my most blatant Code violation to date. I'd waited on edge for weeks, expecting the hammer to come down despite my meticulous cleanup of the scene. But when I dared to check up on the case of the disappearing redneck, the investigative trail had gone cold. Apparently God smiles on drunks, dimwits, and overly emotional serial killers.

Astor still looks skeptical. She remembers the empty look on my face when I broke the news of her mother's death. The mouse ears I was wearing at the time probably didn't help. Nonetheless, she seems to accept this.

"I --" _Swallow the truth._ "I was running away. I was going to leave you. And Cody...and Harrison."

_Force it out._

"I thought you'd be better off without me."

"I'm glad you stayed." Her voice is quiet as she looks down at her taped and battered hands. "What made you change your mind?"

I remember the stink of urine and blood. The rasp of my throat, raw from screaming, as I knelt on an ancient wooden floor. The cold comfort of a dead man's hand on my shoulder.

I take her by the elbow and gently guide her to the sink. Slowly the tape unwinds, assisted by warm water.

"Someone convinced me otherwise."

A sniffle emerges before she angrily wipes it away. Her other hand remains firmly in mine. 

"Even after that -- I had to...work through the pain." I can't remember where I first heard that phrase, but it comes in very handy. Not least because it's true. "Lumen...had problems of her own. We helped each other. But then --"

_She decided,_ the Dark Passenger sighs. _She knew what was best. She decided for you. For us._

"She had to go." I look away. "To be with her family."

We finish our washing up in silence.

  


* * *

  


The ride back is equally devoid of discussion. At least between Astor and myself. Luckily, Harrison is there to make up the deficit. I wonder again how old he can get before he inevitably starts Noticing.

I crane my neck as we pass by the pool. There's no sign of our new lifeguard, but I stop and frown, squinting at the light from the parking lot reflected on the water.

"What's that?" Astor inquires.

"Stay there." I unlatch the gate and glide forward on rubber soles. The light in the pool itself is broken, burned out or turned off. As I come closer I can discern a large dark patch, with something limp and shiny in the middle.

"What is it --"

"Go inside."

My voice is no louder than before, but Astor instantly turns and hurries up the stairs with Harrison. Her shaky hands rattle my keyring against the doorframe until she finally gets the two of them inside, almost slamming the door in her haste.

My ears barely register these sounds as I stare at the hollowed out corpse of a dog, surrounded by what I now realize is an enormous cloud of blood that is slowly drifting outward into the uncontaminated water. An explosion of organs trails down from its abdomen, the mass below anchoring it to the spot as it slowly bobs back and forth.

I hear someone swallow, feel their presence beside me. I should be alarmed that someone managed to sneak up on me. Except they're not trying to hide as I look and see who it is: The new lifeguard, her eyes fixed upon the mess that's floating in the pool. However, she's not screaming, fainting or vomiting. Not your typical reaction.

Also she's wearing dark jeans and a matching denim jacket, with some sort of T-shirt beneath. It's the first time I've seen her in something other than a bikini and sunglasses. Her dark brown eyes are liquid smoke outlined in black shadow, her shoulder-length hair perfectly tousled. If it weren't for the gruesome circumstances, she could be a fashion model.

"Think you're a little late for this one." My attempted banter slips out before I can help it. Her gaze tracks over to me, unreadable.

"Sorry." I cover a cough. "Morbid humor. Occupational hazard."

She offers a dismissive snort as she returns to examining the grotesquerie. "You a cop?"

"Close enough." I plaster on my most winning smile, just in case she turns back. "My sister's a cop. I do forensics. Miami Metro."

"Great." This last is muttered under her breath as she kneels, examining the edge of the pool. "Like I don't have enough problems."

"The last time someone peed in this thing, it was shut down for a week." I raise one hand as she raises her head to glare at me. "True story."

She regards me with a look of absolute stone. "You wanna back off a little there, chief?"

"No problem." I raise both hands and take a step back. "I'll need to phone this in."

"Yeah. I'm sure the fine folks at Animal Control are gonna get right on that."

"Not every civil servant is a useless parasite." I have to appreciate her calm in the face of horror. Also her unflappable sarcasm. Whatever else she might be, this girl is a professional of some experience. "Some of us actually perform a useful function."

She doesn't take the bait this time. Instead she surveys the tile for a long moment, kneeling down low enough the ends of her hair brush the wet cement. I'd wonder what she were doing if I weren't simply being amazed that none of the neighbors have come outside to gawk.

She stands with a sigh, wiping both hands on her jeans. "Mind if I use your bathroom?"

"Sure." Inwardly, I curse my instinctive waspy politeness. One of these days, it's going to get us all killed.

"Don't worry." My new companion appears somewhat mollified, perhaps sensing mistrust. "I got a ride coming. I'll wait outside."

I hope her ride is as copacetic about gruesomely slaughtered housepets. But none of that matters. Because while I thought I was paying attention before, my entire body has just sprung up to a level of alertness that is physically painful. All senses flung into overdrive by a sound that makes everything else in the world come to a screeching halt.

The wordless voice of my son, crying out in fear.

It lasts no more than half a second. In the space of that time I'm in motion, have reached the foot of the staircase that leads to my apartment. Lifeguard Woman is hot on my heels as we practically fly up the stairs and I slam open the door, taking in the panorama.

Harrison hadn't sounded as though he was in pain; just scared. Therefore, my first priority is determining whether violence on my part is appropriate. And if so, how much.

Astor is standing close to the wall, one hand held out before her as she interpolates her own body between Harrison and the intruder. Who has come from the hallway, and is therefore standing in profile to me as I enter the apartment.

I can hear Lifeguard Woman sucking in a hiss of air. But when the stranger turns her anguished face toward me, I have my own flash of recognition. Although her clothes are different.

For one thing, they're not covered in blood.

She cocks her head and bangs fall over her eyes. "You're a killer."

"Dexter?" Astor's hand is shaking. Despite her best efforts at self-control, I can hear the matching tremor in her voice.

"Hey, kiddo." Lifeguard Woman's words are pitched low and soothing. "You got a lot of people worried."

"I can take care of -- myself." And my strange savage girl's eyes are an inferno as she stares down the other woman. "My. Self."

Harrison lets out a loud hiccup. It nearly turns into a wail, but Astor sweeps him up and into her arms, never taking her eyes off of our home invader.

"Ladies?" I try not to sound overly confrontational. "Maybe you'd like to take your obvious history with each other...somewhere else?"

"You have to tell her." This from Intruder Girl to Lifeguard Woman. Clearly, I'm going to need to know their names. Right now, though, I have other priorities.

"Who _are_ you!"

It's as much demand as it is question, all of Astor's pent-up frustration and fear in one fervent exclamation. And in her eyes is something more. Something the Passenger and I both know on sight, in our deepest instincts. Something dark and primal.

And somehow, literally inhuman.

It's that last bit that raises my hackles. Again, quite literally; the hair on the back of my neck rises up and my skin crawls, plus a few more things I'm too stunned to pay attention to. Because no matter how foul the deeds of those so-called humans who ended up on my table, tucked away in my hidden treasure chest of blood slides, they _had_ been human: Unsurprisingly, disappointingly, tiresomely human to the last, each and every one. How obvious did it have to be? Every time I'd been foolish enough to think that I might learn a valuable life lesson from someone, it turned out to be far more trouble than it was worth. And in the end, Rita had paid the ultimate price.

Now, suddenly, I'm angry. Because I've just seen Rita again. Or something walking around wearing her skin. And because these people know a hell of a lot more than they're letting on.

I open my mouth. And stop before I can utter a word, all my thoughts fled. Because as one, as I glance back and forth between them, all three of these dark-haired attractive young women are turning their heads, joining each other in staring out my window. The blinds are drawn, and outside the light of the security floods only extends a few feet beyond the building. Still they stare, as my brain strives to connect these disparate elements into some sort of coherent structure.

From outside comes a faint and sinister giggle.

_"Dear boy..."_


	6. Chapter 6

Every day, in every way, my life grows a little bit stranger.

That is, until it went off the rails completely. Which by my guess would be when I saw one of my kills turn to dust and blow away in the wind. Didn't even get a blood slide. And then the runaway train turned into a rocket, blasting off into outer space. Because I'm not sure what else you'd call it when you see your dead wife back among the living.

Make that _undead_.

The dwindling rational part of my brain takes in the rest of the room. Its occupants present a fine tableau, starting with the strange woman who followed me up the stairs and into my apartment. Currently she's facing off against another strange woman. My life seems to be full of them lately. Including Astor, who I thought I knew. Reasonably well, as people go.

Astor clutches Harrison to her chest as she watches the two strangers. I know from experience that for whatever reason, rather than hitting like a typical girl, Astor hits like a Mack truck on steroids. On the other hand, I've also personally witnessed one of these other women jump over an eight foot wall. I have a sneaking suspicion this newcomer is no different.

All this pales, however, before the look on Astor's face. Very much one of recognition. And dawning horror, as she stares out the window and her lips form the word:

_Mom?_

"Where do you think you're going?"

The casual authority in that rich, purring voice is only outweighed by its dangerous calm. Wherever this woman might have honed her craft, it wasn't at lifeguard school.

Luckily for me, I'm not the one being addressed. At first I think she's talking to Astor. Then I realize her target is the other unfamiliar young brunette. The one who apparently broke into my apartment, as opposed to following me in. And who is staring at the woman who followed me in, looking like she wants to bolt right past her, out the door and into the dark to face head on whatever the hell is out there.

This is not helping me feel in control of the situation.

"Let me go." The one with crazy eyes is practically dancing back and forth; champing at the virtual bit like a racehorse trembling with the need to bolt. "I can take her --"

"Can you take me?" The other woman stands unmoving, blocking her path to the door. Dark circles of exhaustion undersscore her eyes, offset by the flinty, implacable gaze. "'Cause last time I checked --"

"This is what I do!" The girl's hands ball into fists, and her voice drops to a whisper. "It's all I do."

"And this is exactly what happened before." The aura of command is still present, but her companion sounds less of an authority figure. More like a friend. "You ran off alone."

The crazy girl gives her a sad little smile, that doesn't look crazy at all.

"I'm never alone."

I feel her move before I see the movement itself.

It's the only thing that saves me from being pummeled into paste.

I'd like to say I looked like poetry in motion. That I put Olympians to shame; that every stuntman in the business immediately hung up their spurs, knowing in their hearts they could never equal my superlative grace and skill. The reality is that I couldn't have looked more foolish if I'd been slipping on a banana peel.

Actually, that might have helped. At least then I would have had an excuse.

The next thing I know, I'm sprawled out and sliding. Then I hear a muffled grunt, feel an impact that sends a vibration through the floor.

I'm thinking the neighbors are going to be calling the police any minute as I sit up and see Astor running toward me. The two increasingly strange women are joined in all-out combat that with each powerful exchange, threatens to reduce my tasteful modern furniture to so much kindling.

"Stay with Harrison!" I manage, and motion Astor back. She skids to a stop as I struggle to my feet.

My first instinct is to grab a knife from the counter, but that urge passes almost as quickly as the blows being traded. Astor has the potential to be this good, or so it seems. But this is more than raw strength and speed, more than superlative skill or years of training. These girls are fighting on nothing but pure instinct. And despite their obvious historical drama -- for the sheer joy of it.

I back into the kitchen, never taking my eyes from them. My hand is on the phone when a flying body meets my set of glass bookshelves. The shelves are definitely the loser, but my crazy killer girl isn't looking so good herself. 

She's not getting up. She lies there on her back, crimson streaks across her face, just like the first time I met her, staring at the ceiling. And slowly, disconcertingly, she begins to smile.

"They're coming to get you, Faith." A giggle trickles from between her bruised and bloody lips. "I can hear them..."

"You hear radio broadcasts from fuckin' Mars!" The other woman straddles her, grabbing her shirt in both hands and bodily lifting. Crazy girl continues to stare at the ceiling, her laughter growing louder as our new lifeguard -- Faith? -- draws back a cocked fist.

Astor is still obviously trying to process the voice of her dead mother coming from outside. But on top of that, she's looking more and more conflicted; as if she's trying with all her might not to abandon her brother and throw herself headlong into the mix. All I know is that whatever connection these girls have -- however these increasingly bizarre events can and will be eventually explained -- right now, this seems like a very bad idea.

"They're coming..." My little lunatic continues to laugh, hanging limp in her attacker's grasp. Faith stares at her in obvious frustration, and I realize I've forgotten to dial 911.

Then the sun flips on, right outside my window.

_"Freeze!"_

It's our night watchman. I can't remember his name, but now I recognize our outdoor floodlights, all of them on full blast.

_"Police have been notified and are on the way! Drop your weapons and lie face down, on the ground! I repeat, lie face --"_

Faith actually screams aloud. Right in the other girl's face, all her anger and frustration in one brief and uncontrolled outburst.

Then she slams her to the floor. Rises, turns, and makes a break for the door.

The sudden reversal has me more than a little confused already. By the time I convince my sluggish muscles into movement, Faith is out the door, leaving it swinging in her wake. Outside I hear a confused shout that quickly turns to a yell of pain, followed by a rattling crash. If I had to guess, I'd say our night watchman just got thrown up against the wall of the clubhouse.

"Pool's closed."

"Is it now?" I look over at our home invader. She's still stretched out on the floor, looking to be checking my ceiling for leaks. 

I hazard a suggestion. "Don't you want to help your friend?"

"She won't be staying."

The lack of commotion from outside seems to bear this out. I can hear the security guard cursing and groaning as he hauls himself to his feet, with none of the desperation in his voice of only moments before.

"She'll lead them away." The girl slowly sits up, wincing as she gives one shoulder an experimental rotation. "And they won't be back. Not tonight."

"How do you know?" Astor demands. Harrison is trying to crane his head around to get a better look, but big sister has him in an unrelenting grip.

"Because I know why they're after you."

She's not looking at Astor. 

"Me?" I flash back to the night I frst saw Rita resurrected. Is it possible these things are capable of tracking by scent? I almost chuckle at the notion of a literal supernatural bloodhound.

I keep both eyes on her as I pull a clean dish towel from the drawer, run water in the sink until well chilled. She watches with interest as I wring the towel out, nods when I hold it up, catches it when I toss it over.

"No offense," I say as she holds the cloth to her face. "But how do we know we can trust you?"

"I see what you did there," she says, wiping away the worst of the blood. Astor is still watching her with a frown of suspicion, watchful for the first wrong move.

"Ever hear the old joke?" She tosses back the towel, standing straighter under our scrutiny as she returns my gaze. "I'm crazy. Not stupid."

Astor lets out a short bark of laughter that sounds more like a sob.

The phone is still in my hand. I look down at it, shrug, and place the receiver back in its cradle on the wall.

"Mister Morgan!"

I can hear the guard struggling his way up the staircase. From the squelching sounds, his waterlogged uniform must be giving him almost as much trouble as his chronic obesity.

"In here," I call out. "We're all right."

"Thank God." The guard -- Guillermo, that's his name -- is halfway in the door when he remembers he's pouring water rather than dripping, and quickly steps back outside. "Any of you get a look at those people?"

"We were kind of busy," I say.

Guillermo pokes his head in. Then he purses his lips and lets out a low whistle as he takes in the spectacle of broken glass and twisted metal, the explosion of books now scattered all over my living room.

"Someone broke in." I realize how lame it sounds, even as I look over to flash a quick silent warning to my new partner in crime. "We...drove him off."

"Probably working with the two I saw. Jesus, that shit in the pool..." Guillermo holds one hand to the small of his back with a grimace. He's recovering from the pain when he notices our unfamiliar face. "Who's that?"

"Friend of Astor's." I feel smooth as Saran Wrap as I offer an indulgent smile. "She's staying the night."

"Gotcha." Guillermo nods, his token inquiry already forgotten. "Looks like you were as far as they got, but I'm gonna check on the other tenants. Maybe by then the cops might show up --"

He breaks off, looking suitably embarrassed. I smile, shake my head and wave.

Thankfully, he takes the hint. The door is hardly shut when I'm walking over to our stranger. I stop a few feet away.

"I can't keep calling you Crazy Girl." I lift my chin, in a gesture of general inquiry. "What should I call you?"

The tiniest twitch at the corners of her lips. "We are legion."

"That's not very reassuring." I manage to sound casual. "What do your friends call you?"

She looks at me as if I'm clinically retarded.

"I am Alia of the Knife."

I can hear the capital letters. More importantly, I recognize the reference. Never read the books, but I saw the miniseries.

"I take it that's meant to be figurative." I frown as I regard her. "Maybe a metaphor?"

"I am Shiva." She holds her head high, then seems to slightly deflate, shoulders sagging. "I'm a killer."

Astor takes a step back. I can feel her tensing up from here.

A laugh emerges from our homicidal houseguest. "I'm a lifeguard."

I blink, and squint. While she and Faith certainly bear a passing resemblance, they're no twins. And yet, in that moment...

She turns to Astor, with a sad smile.

"I'm you."

  


* * *

  


Thankfully, the cops who arrive are about as interested in taking statements from my stepdaughter and her friend as they are in taking one from Harrison. I provide the same sketchy details I gave to Guillermo, with which they seem more than content. One of them recognizes me as Deb's brother, but it doesn't turn into a prolonged conversation.

I keep one eye on the girls sitting on the couch as I wrap things up and send the officers on their way. Astor is still holding onto Harrison, her posture only slightly less rigid as our visitor demonstrates her ability to play peekaboo with a toddler without resorting to violence. I catch her eye, and she gives the slightest nod: _I'll be all right, for a minute._

I turn and slip down the hallway, silent on the carpet. Our crazy girl had entered the living room from this direction. At the other end was my bedroom, with no alternate entrance. Apart from the window.

I can already see from here the locking mechanism is actually broken in two, the ends bent and twisted from sheer force. I dump the pieces in my wastebasket, making a mental note to call the building super. Then I quietly shut the bedroom door, turn around and take a long, hard look at every last thing in the room.

Nothing seems out of place. I kneel, and press my fingers to the hidden switch.

My secret stash of killing implements springs forth. It appears likewise undisturbed; the length of thread that serves as a warning system still intact.

How did things spiral this badly out of control?

I slide the chest back into place. Then I stand up, and if I had a knife in my hand I would have turned around and plunged it into the chest of the person I can now sense is standing directly behind me.

When I turn around, it isn't Astor.

"They can't come in." She seems a bit guilty as she indicates the window. "You have to invite them."

I venture to give voice to insanity. "You mean vampires?"

"No." This earns me a scornful look. "Leprechauns."

"So your sarcasm isn't broken." I offer a sagacious nod. "Good to know."

She glares, back to being suspicious. The effect is ruined when the room echoes with a growl from her stomach.

"You want some breakfast?"

The mournful gaze she turns upon me would melt the stoniest of hearts. As it is, I feel a tiny twinge in my own.

She offers a shy smile, looking even younger than Astor. "Do unto others."

  


* * *

  


Her table manners are atrocious. At least they start out that way. Then partway through it's as though a switch were flipped, with her channeling a Victorian governess; each bite small and proper, just so. Harrison is greatly amused. I only hope he doesn't take away the wrong lessons from this experience.

We do at least extract a name. Or rather, Astor does, while I'm clearing away dishes and sweeping up glass. I come back and Astor introduces us to Dana, who sits and smiles prettily with her crazy eyes, a stray smudge of red adorning her temple. I take this as a sign that we can start asking the tough questions. Unfortunately, her mental state remains foggy at best.

"I heard my mom out there." Astor's eyes are haggard, her voice blunt and hard. "What do you know about her?"

Dana cocks her head to one side. "She's dead."

Astor swallows as a hand reaches out to cover hers.

"I'm sorry."

Dana's quiet voice is full of sympathy. Astor stares back, grief and anger at war with each other upon her face.

"It's why they're hunting you."

Again, Dana's statement is directed at me. Her gaze is so piercing it feels like I'm actually being pierced.

"She doesn't seem to remember me." I frown as I try to work it out. "It's like she's someone else now."

"Would be." Dana nods. "If it was her."

"Wait -- what?" Astor's agitation is growing, Harrison fidgeting in her map.

"It's not her." Dana gives her hand a squeeze. "More so than usual."

Astor falls silent.

Still, I muse to myself as I dispose of a dustpan full of glass. Too many questions.

And now that I have a fellow killer under my roof?

Time to start getting some answers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exposition through conversation, and a new non-Buffyverse addition to the cast.

Remember what I said about getting answers?

Turns out it's not enough to ask the right questions. Not when you're interrogating thousands of people who happen to be in the same body. Apparently with this girl, "contains multitudes" is quite literal.

I watch her watching Astor and Harrison. Us at the kitchen counter, them on the couch.

"Mama." Harrison points to the stuffed duck he's just dropped to the floor.

Astor smiles as she retrieves the target. I can tell her heart's not in it. A college psych professor once told me that teenagers are like actors, because all they know how to do is project and magnify. They're still learning how to manage their emotions.

Which brings to mind another question. "How old are you?"

Dana gives me a look of scorn and pity.

"Of course." I raise my hands in mock surrender. "That's a leading question. Not to mention rude."

She frowns, like she's not sure if she's being mocked. "Rude?"

"So I've been told. By --" I consider this. "Well. Pretty much every woman I ever met."

Dana shakes her head as if warding off a dive-bombing insect.

"You need to know. You need to know," she repeats with one hand upraised, loosely held, her index finger pointing skyward. It brings to mind the sort of preachers who baptize people in rivers.

"But there's a problem," Dana continues. She glances over at Astor, then back at me, and stifles a giggle. "I'm an unreliable narrator."

"You're a lot of things," Astor says.

I look over at the couch. Harrison is laid out with his head in her lap, with the blanket she's been using draped over his slumbering form. I really ought to be getting her some sort of real bed.

"But I'm no liar." Dana stares at her, dark and haunted. "Am I?"

Astor shakes her head no. Slowly, silently.

"Dana." I choose my words with surgical precision. "What are you?"

She turns back to me with a condescending look that seems also grateful. Like it's a question she's been waiting for.

"Into every generation she is born. One girl in all the world. A Chosen One." Dana's capitals are again audible as she sits up straighter. "She alone will have the strength, the skill. To stand against the vampires --"

"The demons." Astor's voice is a whisper of terror and exultation.

"And the forces of darkness," Dana concludes. She meets my attempt at a stern, fatherly gaze head on, and that inhuman presence inside her seems dwarfed by staggering visions of untold millennia, countless lives down through the ages. "I'm the Slayer."

"Again with the capital letters." I glance over at Astor, who looks like her nightmares are coming true right before her eyes. "And did I hear you right?"

"Demons." Dana nods, then shakes her head. "But no leprechauns."

Astor offers another humorless snort.

I look back and forth between them, trying to ascertain the safer path. "Seems like there's more than one of you."

"That was then." Dana gives Astor a shrug that seems like an apology. "This is now."

"And what about your friend?" I say it like Astor says _tenant_. "Faith. How does she fit into all this?"

"Thinks she knows better." Dana ducks her head, then raises it once more. Her demeanor is proud, even defiant. I think back to the moment I first saw her, covered in the blood of the men she had slaughtered. Smugglers; rapists and murderers.

"You're not just hunting vampires." I feel it come together in my head like a spatter map. "You're going after humans."

"My work takes me to strange places." This time, Dana's not looking at me. Astor swallows but returns her gaze, and Dana turns back to me wearing that sad little smile. "You haven't seen me at my worst."

"I'll take your word for it." My silent stare into her eyes can't help but give a full-on glimpse of the brutality beneath the veneer of civilization. Along with a reminder of how we first met.

"What about me?" Astor's voice is low and urgent. She keeps sneaking side glances at Harrison, hands clutching her knees in an apparent struggle to remain still. 

"One of us." Dana nods to Astor as she sits up once more, rigid and proper. "Things are different. From now on, every girl in the world who might be a Slayer...will be a Slayer."

"And that's me." Astor appears more than slightly stunned. And with a growing apprehension I can only attribute to parts of her dreams she hasn't shared.

"And me," Dana confirms. The fingers of her right hand give a slight twitch. "Except I'm special."

"I can tell." I can also tell from the look Astor gives me that this wasn't a socially acceptable joke.

Except Dana actually laughs, and rolls her eyes. "I'm every woman."

"I'll assume that's meant to be sarcasm." I peer at her closely, trying to discern the emotional map for the territory. I feel like a blind man carrying a broken lantern in the middle of the night. On a desert island, filled with quicksand.

"But in your case," I continue. "It seems literal. Or if not every woman --"

"Every Slayer?" Astor's eyebrows knit together in thought. "So you have...some kind of connection? With all of us?" The look on her face is growing more troubled. "With me?"

"I wasn't ready to be strong." Dana's looking at the floor now, shaking her head, her hands clasped tight in front of her. "Mistakes were made."

Even with her trying to be quiet about it, I can hear Astor swallow from all the way over there where she's sitting. As usual, the Dark Passenger takes a keen interest in any details that might be gleaned, however tragic. For my part, I've learned that ignorance can sometimes be more than bliss. It can keep you sane. Or at least functioning.

_But not alive,_ the Passenger croons.

The image flashes in my mind like a streak of lightning; Harrison crying, sitting on the floor, surrounded by blood. I realize I'm clenching my fist, nails digging into my palm.

When the hell did I become so volatile?

I know at least part of the answer.

"You said it wasn't her." I assemble my thoughts, turning to Dana with what I hope is an air of authority. "And by that you mean -- the blonde woman I saw --"

"You can say vampire," Astor interjects, sounding impatient. "Can we at least agree on that? And move the f--" She clears her throat. "Move on?"

"And by that you mean -- that is not my wife and this girl's mother, Rita Bennett?" My eyes bore into Dana's. "Murdered by the Trinity killer?"

"Dexter." Astor's voice is hushed as she gazes at the sleeping form of my son, still curled up on the couch under a blanket.

"That's what I mean." Dana offers a rueful smile. "Pretty sure." 

"Well -- that's good." I look over at Astor, unsure whether I'm offering or seeking reassurance. "Right?"

Again, Astor offers only a silent nod of assent.

"Problem." Dana holds up one index finger for emphasis. "This chick is one of those long-term thinkers."

"Those are the worst kind," I agree.

"The kind that does more than suck your blood," Dana continues, with some impatience. With her hands on her hips, her defiant attitude and slangy accent, she could be a Valley Girl straight out of the eighties. Not that I lived through them myself, but some things you never forget. Not with the karaoke stylings of Vince Masuka to forever sear them into your memory.

"So she wants to make people suffer." I'm already following down the path. "And mind games can be more devastating than physical. Warm up with the mental torture --"

"Finish the job on the body." And something too dark to name flashes deep in Dana's eyes. "Want to hear the bad news?"

"You're kidding, right?" Astor's fighting to keep her voice level. I can hear the beginnings of hysterical laughter underneath, squirming to get out. "It gets worse?"

  


* * *

  


Over the last few weeks, my formerly empirical mind has been forced to become somewhat open. So much so that I'm starting to worry my brains are falling out. But I can come up with at least a few hypotheses regarding vampirism, and none whatsoever for a psychic.

Because apparently Darla -- my phantom lady of the evening, my lovely Rita look a like -- has herself a seer for a sidekick. That would be Drusilla, the other vampire I met that night in the alley. Let her get close enough, she can enthrall the average person into submission, then slaughter them at her leisure. And there's potentially no end to the amount of intel she can gather on her opponents. It's just a question of whether she's lucid enough to act on it. Or if someone else can worm the details out of her.

"So the more Darla knows about us..." Astor's expression is grim at the full and dire implications.

"They use the things we love against us." Dana nods, looking stricken as she brushes away a troublesome tangled lock of hair. "And the people."

"Guys." I pitch my voice low, as soothing as I can. I'm out of practice. "At least we know it's coming, right? Forewarned is forearmed."

"Psychological warfare." Dana dismisses this with a wave of her hand. "Just give me an ass to kick and I'm good."

Astor winces as the other girl gives her knuckles a solid crack.

"So you're here to help?" I clarify, off of Dana's puzzled look. "At least until the Darla problem's been dealt with."

"As long as someone doesn't get in my way." The look in Dana's eyes leaves little doubt in my mind. It's the look she had when she and Faith were busy destroying my furniture.

"I really don't have room here for another person," I point out. "Plus the landlord might have something to say."

"It's okay." Dana rises to her feet. Then places her hand on my shoulder, like she's bestowing a benediction. "I'll be around."

"As long as you don't let yourself in again." I don't make it sound optional.

She smiles, and seems perfectly sane. "Cross my heart."

"You can't go --" Astor's interjection chokes off as she sinks back into the couch. Harrison shifts and mumbles, drawing a nervous glance from Astor before she turns around with a look of naked pleading. As if all the things that didn't make sense are finally starting to; and in the desperate knowledge that if Dana steps out that door, she may never return.

"I'll be all right." Dana walks over to to the couch and kneels before Astor. Down on one knee like a suitor, taking her by the hand. "You'll be all right."

"You better come back," Astor whispers. She swallows and squeezes, so hard I see the corded muscles tremble in her forearm.

Dana returns her strength in full.

"Count on it."

I escort her to the door, where we both scan the area for signs of trouble. The only indication is the yellow hazard tape cordoning off the pool. Before I can warn Dana to be careful, she's vaulted over the railing, vanishing into shadow without a trace. I strain my ears, to no avail. She really is some spooky ninja badass.

I cover a yawn as I close the door. I'm double checking the locks for good measure when I realize I've been doing it for a few minutes. Maybe longer.

"Dexter." Astor takes me by the hand. Leads me down the hallway, gives me a gentle push. "Go to bed."

"Harrison," I mumble. My tongue is cramped and dry, my once crisp dress shirt wrinkled with sweat.

"I've got him."

I was standing. Now I'm lying down.

Someone is removing my shoes.

  


* * *

  


I'm lying on a table. I should be able to tell if it's plastic wrap holding me down, but I can't move a muscle. Utterly paralyzed, unable to blink or so much as draw breath. And still my panicking brain persists on existing, on processing all these details. The slow click and scrape of the footsteps that circle round; the low murmurs and whispered laughter.

Rita looms over me, looking down. Her smile fades.

_I should have fucking killed you when I had the chance._

Her knife flashes before my eyes.

  


* * *

  


I'm sitting up in bed. My hand on my chest, breathing hard through my nose. No blood; no stab wound.

No Rita. 

I fall back among the pillows to stare at the ceiling. My shoulder still throbs, if a bit less this morning. Which it is, judging by the sunrise creeping through the curtains.

A timid knock from my door. "Dexter?"

"I'm up." My response is automatic. I'm sitting up, standing, on my feet before I remember it's my day off.

"You have a visitor."

Something in Astor's voice adds to my urgency. I throw on the first clean shirt I can grab and stride out with great confidence to seize the day.

"Hey, Dexter."

I come to a halt. Because standing in my living room is the last person I expected to see, other than Rita. Standing there with a travel bag over one shoulder, blonde hair in a ponytail, wearing that same old familiar look of concern.

"Hope I didn't come at a bad time."

Somewhere, I find my voice.

"Hey, Lumen."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catching up with old friends, and forging fresh alliances.

Until now, I hadn't much wondered how things could possibly get more awkward.

I'm beginning to rethink that policy.

It's a good thing I have today off. Instead of indexing slides, comparing DNA samples and measuring arterial spray and flow, I get to numbly prop myself on a stool at my kitchen counter watching Astor make coffee. Lumen sits beside me with an air of uncertainty, seemingly hesitant to make physical contact.

From outside comes the chatter of underpaid workers, venting their frustration and disgust at whatever _hijo de coño_ would do such a thing to a poor damned dog. Animal Control has already been by to pick up the corpse, leaving the crew of the apartment complex to deal with cleanup. I make a mental note to do something nice for them. Something more substantial than a case of beer.

"Since you left. Things have..." I search for something appropriate for all audiences. "Gotten weird."

Lumen frowns, a subtle tilt of her head indicating her awareness of Astor's presence. "_More_ weird?"

I think of the last few weeks. Then the last twelve hours.

"Definitely."

Lumen considers this, pursing her lips in thought. For a moment I feel them brush against my neck. Deep down inside the Passenger flinches, drawing away.

"Here you go." Astor sets the steaming mug on the counter with a nod to Lumen. The old wariness is back, as if they were meeting for the first time. Or maybe just maintaining a bit of token teenage hostility, for the sake of appearances.

"Thanks." Lumen cradles the cup to her chest. "How's your friend?"

Astor blinks, then her face clears. "Good. Olivia's good."

Lumen nods, apparently satisfied. Astor clears her throat.

"I'm going to take Harrison outside." She nods at her grinning brother, already dressed and ready to go. "I won't go anywhere else."

"Are you sure?" Lumen frowns once more. "It's...a little messy out there."

"We can sit on the dock." Astor has that pleading look again. I'm not sure which of us she's trying to save. "It's broad daylight."

"Sure," I say. "Harrison, you do what Astor says. Okay?"

Harrison gazes up at me. "'Tay."

"How about that?" I smile hugely and ruffle his hair. "Another word already."

Is this what they mean by growing up too fast?

"Oh -- Lumen." Astor turns mid-step, momentarily wrestling with something. "You haven't been...having, like -- weird dreams?"

"Define weird." But Lumen is relaxed and smiling in her reaction; seemingly unaware of any hidden meaning. Astor shakes her head.

"Come on, Harrison." Astor gives a mock scowl as she takes him by the hand. "You need sunscreen."

We drink our coffee in silence while they finish up in the bathroom. Astor waves as they head out, and I exhale sharply when the door shuts.

"I'm sorry." Lumen looks crestfallen. "I shouldn't have sprung this on you --"

"No." I reach out and take her hands in mine. "You might have come at exactly the right time."

  


* * *

  


I still don't mention anything supernatural. Soon -- hopefully. But first I need to know the rest of Lumen's story. How she got from here to there, and back again. Having assured her that Astor is still blissfully unaware of my murderous history and hobbies, my newest houseguest naturally then inquires as to the nature of our current stated "weirdness". For instance, does it have anything to do with the bloody mess out there in the pool?

My redirection is clumsy, but soon enough the conversational floodgates begin to move in the other direction. People love to talk about themselves, even when it's not all that pleasant. And I'm the only person in the world she can open up to.

"I was staying with Mom." She looks a little more composed now that we've moved to the couch. "Managed not to exhibit too much PTSD around her."

A sarcastic laugh punctuates this. Not a hysterical one, or even overly nervous. Just very self-aware.

"I couldn't have asked for a better reunion," she quietly continues. "Under the circumstances."

The tragedy in her eyes is muted but unmistakable. Cushioned by layers of murder, Lumen had clawed her way out of the pit to a state she had thought forever lost to her: Simply wanting to _live_. For any reason, that is, other than vengeance. And then she had turned, and seen me at her side, and she had realized that unlike her I would never stop. Because this was my life. Before Rita, during Rita, after Rita, world without end. Hallelujah. 

"But I couldn't stop thinking about you."

The sadness in her smile is perplexing, until I realize her concern is directed at me.

"And Harrison." She glances at the door. Her smile is I think what people call wistful. "And Astor -- believe it or not."

"I wish you could meet Cody." I blurt it out before I can stop myself. "Astor's brother. Harrison's half-brother. He's a great kid -- they're both --"

I flounder to a stop. Lumen's hand covers mine, giving a squeeze of reassurance.

"But Owen..." She swallows. "Wouldn't leave it alone."

Her smile vanishes.

"He'd moved out to California. But when he heard I was home, he caught the first flight back. Showed up on my mom's doorstep, demanding to know what was different now." Lumen's eyes flash a hint of steel. "You know what I told him?"

I feel a slight tremble in her hand.

"Me."

Her gaze is fixed on mine. Her cheeks are a healthy pink, the smell of her hair fresh and clean. It's a far cry from the bruised and bloody near-lunatic state I had found her in when first we met. Talk about awkward.

"So Mom came out and got in his face. And the whole time, I'm ready for him to try something. Anything." Lumen shakes her head. "I didn't _want_ him to. I swear. And he's never -- so much as --"

She draws a deep and shaking breath.

"Finally, he left. And Mom came over to me. And when she put her hand on my shoulder? I didn't scream." She looks down at our conjoined fingers.

"I didn't even want to." She sounds almost puzzled. "But that was when I knew."

Lumen raises her head, her grip on my hand strong and steady.

"I had to come back."

"I'm glad." My voice seems hoarse with emotion. I tell myself it's from lack of use. We sit there holding onto one another, until a thought occurs to her.

"So where is Cody?"

"His grandparents. His dad's folks," I clarify. "Orlando."

"Right." She nods, frowning in recollection. "And Astor -- why is she here? Did she get into some kind of trouble again?"

"Not exactly." I disengage my hands and lean back to stare at the ceiling. "It's complicated."

A hint of mischief enters her tone. "More complicated than you."

"Definitely weirder." I pinch the bridge of my nose and think of the wooden stake tucked in the back of my utensil drawer.

"Well --" Lumen looks torn, reluctant to voice her concern. "I don't want to make things more complicated."

"It's not that. It --" I shake my head. "I was going to say...it could be dangerous."

Lumen regards me with a mix of skepticism and confusion. "You're kidding, right?"

"I wish I was." I show her both empty palms in frank admission.

Her eyes narrow as her voice drops to a lower register, a lesser volume.

"More dangerous than Jordan Chase."

I meet her gaze with utmost seriousness. "Yes."

She exhales shakily. "Wow."

I wait for more, but Lumen's still mulling it over. I'm just about ready to say something when she shakes her head.

"Well, that tells me two things." Her eyes latch onto mine. "First? That means something really fucking scary."

"Language," I reflexively respond, clearing my throat at her lifted brow. "Sorry. Force of habit."

She gives a chuckle of disbelief. "I'll try to restrain myself."

It's enough to make me doubt her conviction. That, and the complete lack of conviction. But first things first.

"And second?" I ask.

Lumen folds her arms over her chest, casting her eyes downward.

"It means you're right." 

I watch. I wait.

Our eyes meet.

"I did come at exactly the right time."

Her face twists up as she holds out her arms to me and I know this dance. I'm supposed to run to her, embrace her with all the passion I've never felt but my body is numb as she wraps herself around me and all I can think of is Rita, not even for my own loss as for Astor, and Cody. Nothing can make up for my complete and utter failure to take out the monster who murdered their mother.

"I hate the thought of you facing -- whatever this is." Lumen is whispering into my shoulder, clinging tight to me with all the might in her tiny frame. She's no Slayer, but I'm still finding it a little difficult to breathe. "Not without someone on your side."

"I have people," I manage. The fervor in her embrace relaxes as I lay my head atop her own; our bodies pressed together as we sway back and forth. "But I'm glad you're one of them."

We remain like this for some time. It's like a very slow motion dance. Until Lumen is looking up at me with bright and shining eyes.

"Do you still have them?"

It takes but a second to divine her meaning. I indicate the chair at my desk, motioning for her to sit. As she takes her place, I glance out the window, satisfying myself of Astor and Harrison's presence down on the dock.

Lumen watches intently as I draw the blinds, step over and throw the deadbolt on the door. I hop up on the edge of the desk and pop the front panel on the air conditioner, pulling free my trophy case.

She gingerly takes the box from me, like she's receiving holy relics. I hop down from the desk as she opens the lid, running her fingers over spines of glass.

"There." I stop her at the three-quarter mark. "That's Cole."

Her fingers tremble.

"And that's Jordan."

She bows her head again, taking a great deep breath and letting it out in a slow, steady stream. Finally she looks back up at me.

"These dangerous people." Her eyes search mine. "Do they deserve to die?"

"That's kind of the problem," I say. "They sort of already have."

Lumen's confusion is definitely outweighing her skepticism. "So what's the problem?" 

"I think it's time for show instead of tell." I close the box and slide it back into its hiding place, replacing the panel. "Come on. We'll grab the kids."

Lumen is still confused. "Where are we going?"

I pluck my keys from the bowl on the kitchen counter.

"Camping."

  


* * *

  


By camping, I really do mean the great outdoors. Especially at this time of day when my health club is definitely lacking in privacy. As we pile into the car, I find myself bemused at just how normal we appear. How like a family.

"Are you staying in touch with Cody?" I direct this at Astor, who's sitting behind Lumen as we pull out of the complex and head for the freeway.

"I talked to him last night." She meets my eyes in the mirror. For the moment, she seems a perfectly happy and well-adjusted teenager. "I think he's starting to enjoy it too much. They're spoiling him rotten."

"Happy birthday," I blurt out. Astor looks surprised, and I frown. "It was last week, right?"

"No, you're -- right." She seems oddly deflated as she returns her attention to Harrison, trying to get him to grab her moving finger. I go back to keeping my eyes on the road.

"I just realized you actually are a teenager, now." I finish the loop and accelerate, enjoying the breeze in my hair through the open windows. Beside me Lumen shines, a warm and welcoming presence.

It takes about as much time as I anticipated for her to realize just where it is we're going. I'm in the middle of making the turnoff from the freeway when I feel her tense up.

"It's okay." I keep my voice casual. watching for the dirt road.

"Isn't it --" Lumen swallows. "A crime scene?"

Behind me, I hear Astor shift in her seat. I imagine her leaning forward, trying not to look curious.

"The investigation wrapped up a while back." I slow down a bit as we make our way up the road. The tall trees on either side make for cool temperatures in comparison to the streets of the city. "For a while, kids were using it for a party spot. But it's been pretty quiet."

A battered and peeling sign announces our destination as I pull in. Astor is first to disembark. Her skepticism is back in full as she gazes around at the dilapidated buildings, the crumbling stone walls.

"Camp River Jordan?" She squints at the sign before giving me a baffled look. "What we are doing here?"

"Just going for a walk." I finish extracting Harrison and his carrier, along with my smaller satchel. I'm momentarily confounded until Lumen steps forward to relieve me of my greater burden.

"You should get one of those wrap things," she says, unbuckling a grateful Harrison. "For carrying kids? Lets you keep both hands free."

She's still on edge, but seems to relax as we move away from the buildings. I pick the first path I find and we head into the woods: Me holding the carrier, Lumen holding Harrison; Astor following close behind.

"We're in luck," I inform everyone. "Not much rain. Any more and the mosquitos would be out for blood."

Harrison is craning his neck around and staring up at the trees in wide-eyed wonder. I can still feel the others, trying silently to figure out what I'm doing.

"Astor, why don't you run ahead?" I glance back over my shoulder. "See if you can find a clearing."

She hesitates only a second before shooting past us, tearing around a curve in the path to disappear into the forest. I can hear the diminishing sound of her sneakers pounding the earth, quickly fading.

"Damn." Lumen looks impressed, but not unreasonably so. "Get that girl on the track team."

"I was thinking MMA."

"What?" 

"Never mind." _One step at a time,_ I think. Seeing is believing.

We walk along in silence. Every so often, whenever Lumen starts to appear nervous or melancholy, she looks down at Harrison in her arms. Each time, his smile or fascination with his surroundings is enough to push back the darkness.

I know it can be this easy for me. I've felt it myself.

Why does it always seem so hard?

"Hey." Lumen's hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. I look up to see nothing but concern on her face. "Whatever you need from me -- you've got it."

"Good." I return her hand squeeze, as Harrison attempts to introduce his chubby fist into the mix. "Right now, I just need one thing."

"What's that?"

I try to sound optimistic. "Convince Astor to trust you."

"Huh." She clearly wasn't expecting this. "Again?"

I nod. "Again."

"And it's not drugs?"

I glance up the path. "You're going to wish it was."

The path is widening out, opening up into a space among the trees before continuing deeper into the forest. As as approach the clearing I spot Astor kneeling by a stone fire circle, poking the ashes with a stick. The rusting hulk of a mini-tractor lies at the edge of the treeline, its yellow safety paint chipped and flaking, scoop half-buried in the ground.

"Let me." I accept Harrison from Lumen and take a seat with my back against one of the trees. Harrison being an active boy, he immediately begins to struggle free.

"No, buddy." I watch as Lumen approaches Astor, slowing as she draws closer. "You stay right here."

Lumen kneels at her side, examining the ashes with interest. "Find anything?"

Astor shrugs. "Wasn't looking."

Lumen nods. She looks back at me, gauging something in her mind. Then sighs, and turns to Astor.

"If it wasn't for your dad --"

"He's not --" Astor breathes heavily as she leans on the stick, grinding the tip into the earth. Nobody says anything until Astor clears her throat.

"Sorry." Her forearm swipes over her eyes in a sharp, angry motion. "I am. Dexter's been -- more of a dad than my real one ever was."

I'm confused. This sounds like it should be a good thing.

Then I remember.

  


* * *

  


_"You ruined everything!" Astor's voice is trembling as we stand facing each other. "We'd gotten used to it. It wasn't that bad."_

_As usual, I struggle to comprehend. "Used to what?"_

_"To the way things were!" she shouts. "Before you! Without a dad!"_

_"Oh," I manage. Beside her, Cody stares at the floor, fists clenched at his sides._

_"And then you come along, and become a part of the family. And we thought that everything was gonna be good forever." For a moment, I think Astor may start to cry. "You made us think that!"_

_The Passenger inside is silent. As is Harry, standing next to me, looking as helpless as I feel._

_"And it's not true." Astor's voice drops back to normal levels. "Things got worse."_

_How can I put their needs ahead of the number one rule?_

_"And now, every time I look at you...I get so angry." Resignation and despair war upon her face, as she pronounces sentence. "Because it was all just a lie."_

  


* * *

  


"I'm sorry." Lumen echoes Astor in her apology. "I shouldn't have --"

"No," Astor interjects. "It's okay."

Lumen glances back at me. I try to convey silent confidence in her decisions as Harrison continues to look about the clearing, unsure of what to focus on.

"I can't imagine how you must feel." Lumen's voice is barely audible. "I mean -- when I went back home. My mom was there."

Astor's shoulder gives the tiniest twitch, as though she almost looked up. 

"I was so happy. I never thought I'd see her again." Lumen momentarily falls silent, gathering courage. "But there were so many things I couldn't say to her."

Astor raises her head. It seems curiosity has finally gotten the best of her.

"Why?"

Once more, Lumen glances at me. "Because there was only one person who would understand."

The emotion in those eyes is not the same as Rita's. Even before she and I ever met, Lumen had known too much. Been illuminated to the harsh and ugly realities of existence. But I don't know what else to call what I'm seeing.

Is this love?

"If it weren't for Dexter, I wouldn't be here."

Lumen holds Astor's gaze, unflinching.

"I'd be dead."

"Die-die," Harrison chimes in. Lumen shoots a perplexed look at him.

"I think that's how he says dada," I offer. At least, that's what I tell myself.

Astor bows her head. Though not entirely gone, the tension in her posture seems somewhat eased.

"Okay." When she looks up at Lumen, I can see the predator in her eyes. "Okay."

I watch in silence as Astor rises from her crouch, discarding her stick in the fire pit. Then she turns and walks over to the corpse of the mini-tractor. At less than an arm's length away she stops, reaches out and gives an experimental poke. Then another, slightly harder, before nodding.

Her form is perfect. I've been working in weight training whenever possible, though we quickly hit the limits of whatever challenge could be posed by the machines at my health club. But it's absolutely textbook; beautiful in its simplicity, stunning in its execution. Astor simply drops into a squat, hooks her fingers under the tire treads and stands back up with a mild grunt of effort. The mini-tractor doesn't just turn on its side; it actually does a complete flip before hitting the ground with a surprisingly quiet thud. The vibration is actually more significant than the noise.

I look over at Lumen. Her eyes are huge, her mouth ajar.

Astor breaks into a run, heading dead-on for the largest tree. I'm not at all surprised when she continues straight on up the trunk before kicking off in a flip of her own, completing two full rotations before grabbing onto a branch and swinging around. It's a display that would shame professional gymnasts. Lumen is looking even more flabbergasted as Astor disengages and flies into the air.

I'm already standing. Harrison cradled firmly in my left arm, right hand reaching into my satchel as Astor comes down to nail a pinpoint landing.

My injured shoulder protests as the knife leaves my hand.

A scream catches in Lumen's throat.

Astor turns in place, hands coming together with an audible clap.

Lumen stares at the tip of the blade, hovering an inch from Astor's face. Before either of us can react, Astor whirls about and hurls the knife. The tree across the clearing emits a resounding _thwok_ as it suddenly sprouts a handle. It's still shivering from the impact as we stare at it, leaves drifting down from above.

Lumen stares at the tree, at Astor, and at me. Finally, she finds her voice.

"You weren't kidding."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dexter tries to get back to the daily grind, only to find the supernatural world intruding in the broad light of day.

The rest of the day is spent on training. Which oddly enough, is decidedly easier when my attention is divided between one person with superpowers and another without. Lumen's presence allows me to pit her and Astor against each other, as well as demonstrate techniques on her instead of Astor. It's an hour before sunset when we finally leave the campgrounds, and I'm feeling much better than the last time I tried this. Still, I can see how another Slayer would be useful. It would be nice if Dana didn't have so many issues. Among them, basic communication.

We still haven't broached the topic of the supernatural. By unspoken agreement, Astor and I appear to have come to a mutual decision on this. However extraordinary her newfound abilities, they're undeniably real; demonstrably so, as Astor said herself, in broad daylight. We manage to skirt around the specific intent and purpose of those abilities, never explicitly pleading more ignorance than we actually have. We do inform Lumen that there are at least a few thousand young women like Astor all across the world. This last piece of information gives her serious pause for thought, enough to end the conversation for some time as we travel down the highway. I can imagine how Lumen would have dealt with Jordan Chase and his friends if she had the power of a Slayer.

I know most men would probably be jealous, even fearful of a woman with this much literal strength. But the Dark Passenger has only admiration for a fellow predator of the highest order. As for me, I've gone hand to hand with a vampire when I had almost every advantage and barely come out on top. Rather than worry about my pride, I'll take all the help I can get.

The sun is barely hanging above the horizon and Harrison well and fast asleep by the time we get back to the apartment. The pool is drained and thoroughly scrubbed, surrounded on all sides by safety barriers. As we climb the stairs I feel again as though I'm observing from outside. I marvel at the perfect picture we present to the world. A loving family returned from their Sunday outing; tired from their exertions in the sun and fresh air, but better in every way for the experience.

With only one bathroom, it takes a while for two adults and a teenager to get cleaned up for dinner. It's a shame that my newfound threat model precludes grilling outside after dark. In the end, I offer up the rest of the week's breakfast ham as a sacrifice, with Lumen making scalloped potatoes to stretch enough out for everyone.

Despite the day's progress, Astor's emotions are at war upon her face when we sit down for dinner. Every time she relaxes enough to actually laugh or smile, it's as if she remembers all over again. Hearing the voice of her dead mother outside of a dream appears to have set back the little progress she's made over the past year.

_Kids need direction._ Harry stands beside me at the sink as I finish washing up. _A sense of purpose. Something bigger than themselves._

"She's a Slayer," I murmur. In the living room, Lumen and Astor are keeping watchful eye on a sleeping Harrison, conversing in hushed near-whispers. "That seems pretty big."

_And most of what you think you know about them comes from a murderer._ Maximum concern is carved into every crag and crevice of that ghostly face. _And an unstable one at that. It's no wonder Faith wants her off the streets._

"Maybe she didn't vet them like I would have." I barely say it out loud. "But she obviously has some kind of code."

_So did Hammurabi._ Harry leans on the counter, trying to capture my gaze with nonexistent eyes. _That didn't make him a civilized man._

"I didn't see a civilized woman." I pull the plug, using the sprayer to rinse away the suds. "I saw a frightened girl. One who had probably suffered a deeply traumatic experience."

_Dexter, you can't save everyone._ Harry looks as though he wants to grab and shake me. _Trying to recreate the family you've lost is only going to put all of them in --_

"Everything okay?" Where Harry stood, Lumen now stands.

"Reasonably." I finish drying my hands and hold out a welcoming arm. Lumen hesitates before stepping into my embrace. I'm not sure she thinks I actually have emotions. Like me, she wants to believe.

"This Dana girl." Her voice is muffled in my shirt.

"Yes."

"She sounds --" Lumen sighs. "Like she's been through a lot."

"I'm not sure." I gaze over her shoulder into Astor's cold, judgmental stare. "I think she could use a friend."

Astor's gaze falls away. It's enough to cement my decision.

"You should take my room." I'm hoping to avoid an argument. "They just got the new window installed."

"I don't --" Lumen's protest falls short.

"I'll roll out my sleeping bag. Somewhere Astor won't step on me if she has to get up." I indicate an appropriate spot on the floor. "I'll feel better if I'm closer to Harrison."

Lumen seems to accept this. But I see her frown as she looks over at Astor. I take her by the hand, and lead her down the hall.

"Come on." I try to make light of things. "I'll show you where I keep the good stuff."

Actually, she remembers right where my toolchest is hidden. It's one of those little things that help us both sleep soundly. Astor doesn't comment on the new sleeping arrangement, but seems slightly mollified. I really need to get this girl her own bed. Even Harrison has one.

I think I dream of Rita. But upon waking it all turns to smoke, wafting away on the breeze.

  


* * *

  


Astor uses our lack of ham to make a special pleading for the return of pancakes. Lumen being reluctant to voice an opinion, I opt for diplomacy, while remaining silently determined not to make a habit of giving in to adolescent appetites. Luckily for me, Harrison isn't old enough to vote. 

Our household's level of caution and contingency planning is so heightened that I end up being almost ten minutes late to work. It's been hard enough trying to contain one secret life. Now I have two.

"Hey, fucknut."

"Good morning to you too." I manage to forestall further abuse with the usual proffering of pastry. From over a mouthful of apple crumb, Deb levels a cockeyed glare that could peel the paint off a wall.

"I'm still not sitting again this week."

I don't have to pretend to look innocent. "Hot date?"

"Fuf mo!" A spray of crumbs accompanies this apparent denial. Deb gives a mighty swallow, fanning her reddening face.

"It was just a question," I say. Honestly, I'm not sure what her problem is. With that pale skin, she practically looks sunburned.

"I just want to spend a boring week of evenings relaxing at home. Without any other fricking responsibilities." Deb heaves a dramatic sigh. "Is that so wrong?"

Methinks my sis protest too much. "What's wrong is you saying fricking." 

"Fuck you," she replies. "Up the ass, with a rolling donut. Want to get out of the office?"

"I just got here." I indicate my office door, still shut and locked. 

"That's why you missed the briefing." Deb's eyes slide up the hall. The blinds in LaGuerta's window are shut, but I can see motion behind them.

"Maybe I will go with you." I resist the urge to look over my shoulder as I fall into step beside Deb. "I have been spending too much time behind a desk."

She lets out a sarcastic snort as we head for the elevator, double time.

"This one sounds pretty simple." She jabs at the button, motioning me ahead of her. "Always glad to have you, though. We can take my car."

"By the way," I announce as the doors slide shut. "Lumen's back."

Deb does a literal double take. It's one of the few times I've actually seen one that wasn't staged.

"You were going to find out sooner or later." I keep my tone casual. "I didn't want you thinking I was trying to hide something."

"Right." Deb's skepticism is plain. "Is she still your tenant?"

I gaze at the flickering flourescent overhead. "When I figure it out, I'll let you know."

"At least that sounds less bullshit than last time." She shakes her head. "How's Astor dealing with it?"

"Better than last time." We disembark from the elevator, where I pause to hold the door for a pair of cadets. "I think she decided she has bigger things to worry about."

"Well -- you know teenagers." Deb dons her dark sunglasses as we exit the building, squinting up at the sky. "Everything's the end of the world."

  


* * *

  


The scene itself is uneventful as advertised: Everything above board and by the book, without the slightest need for sneakiness or subterfuge on my part. I find it especially relaxing since my normal stress-relieving hobby has taken a a back seat as of late. By the time I'm done stringing thread I've gone through two bottles of water and I have the report mostly written in my head. I apply the finishing touches as I'm reeling off salient points to the group of patrol officers assigned to the case. I fully expect them to have the culprit in hand before dawn tomorrow. Sooner, if they think to check the seaports.

"You up for a Cuban?" Deb looks famished as we pull out. I can wait, and say so.

"Right. You've got a full house." She frowns. "Must be tight there. Since you sold Rita's old place."

"It's not ideal," I admit. "I'm thinking of taking the apartment next door. Make it into one unit."

"On your salary?" Deb shakes her head. "Bro, I know you like to save. I know you like to live simple. But family is anything but simple. And yours --"

The sharpness of my glare causes her to stutter to a halt. She sighs.

"Is very not simple."

Her voice is soft and forgiving. Understanding. For what that's worth.

But it does get me thinking again about how complicated this would all be if it was just for the people involved. No bloodsucking creatures of the night. A stepdaughter with emotional problems, instead of supernatural strength. And the fact that the longer I wait to tell Lumen that vampires are in fact real, the worse it will probably be for all concerned. Particularly when one of them is a dead ringer for --

"Huh?" I look up to find us pulled into Deb's spot at Miami Metro. "What about Rita?"

"I know you miss her." Deb stares straight ahead, hands on her steering wheel. "God knows I do too, and not -- but you can't --"

She flounders to a stop.

I take her right hand in both of mine. Slowly; careful not to grab or squeeze.

"I said it before, and I'll say it again." I like the way this sounds. The wholly reasonable voice of the patient older brother. "Nobody is trying to replace Rita. That's --"

I shake off the passing shiver, as Deb gives me a curious once-over.

"That's not possible."

Deb nods, and bows her head. Finally we exit the car. I'm not sure which of us feels the better for having aired our emotional laundry. I'm still figuring out if any of mine is suitable for public viewing.

"So if you don't have a hot date," I say. "Will you at least show up one night this week for dinner? You pick the night."

"Ugh." Deb makes a face. "Fine, you can feed me steak. Or burgers," she quickly adds. "But seriously -- I just need some quality me time."

"Consider it done." I extend my arm with a flourish and the elevator doors slide open. "After you."

"You're pretty gallant, for a fucknut." But Deb smiles through pinkened cheeks as we enter the main office.

"Mister Morgan?"

I come to a complete stop at the sound of that voice. All the more so because the owner of said voice is coming toward me in an expensive grey pantsuit and hairdo with tortoiseshell frames, bearing equal confidence in her stride. And because said owner was last seen in my apartment while destroying furniture and beating the stuffing out of a mentally troubled girl, who also happened to be her fellow Slayer.

One thing I can definitely say about Faith?

"Lenore Ogilvie." She holds up a very official looking ID, hanging from her lanyard. "DCF."

She cleans up well.

"Can we talk?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Defending his domain, Dexter takes a gamble, and acquires valuable information.

The dilation of time is a curious phenomenon in human psychology. Perception clearly and wholly at odds with reality. Where the subjective rules, and objectivity fears to tread.

For the most part, my own fears have been what most people would call _concerns._ As a teenager, I'd nearly fallen from a rooftop as I stood ever closer to the edge, trying to force myself to be afraid. After college, I had managed to summon up a simulacrum of emotion that mimicked the real thing well enough. But I had barely been getting a grip on this sort of play-acting. And then my false relationship had been turned on its head when Rita -- safe, meek, undemanding Rita -- had shown up at my door in an overcoat, offering to raid my tomb. I had let her into my heart, along with her children, and been taken on a roller coaster ride that ended with my being thrown headlong from the tracks. And the absolute most disconcerting moment of genuine existential dread that I can recall, so much worse in hindsight, was when my latest prey strolled into the Miami Metro office in the broad light of day; walked right up to me with an evil eye and a friendly smile and said: _Hello, Dexter Morgan._

Arthur Mitchell had found me. Invaded my place of work, where I was viewed as a respected professional. Where people thought of me as normal.

All this flashes through my thoughts in the time it takes to clear my throat. Behind me I sense Deb coming to a stop, with an inexplicable stiffening up.

I try on a smile. "Miss Ogilvie -- I assume?"

"If you insist." Faith lets the lanyard fall from where she's been holding up her ID for my inspection. The photo matches her new look, hair bun and all. It looks like quality work. I assume it's fake.

"Can I get you a coffee?" I hold up the box in my hand with its traditional peace offering. "Donut?"

"I'd appreciate it if we could get down to business." Faith's speech is crisp and precise. Quite the change in speech patterns. She's no Eliza Doolittle, but it's a distinct contrast to the rough and tumble street thug I remember.

"I'm on a schedule," she continues. "As I'm sure you are."

"What the f--"

Faith gets a very odd look on her face as she stares over my shoulder. Behind me, I can hear Deb choking off her favorite word. Actually, it sounds more like choking on.

"It's about a missing persons case." Faith is looking at me again, but her words seem directed at Deb. Whatever's going on here, it doesn't seem too crazy to think these two have met before somewhere.

"How did --" I clear my throat. "Where did you --"

"A colleague of mine recommended you," Faith says. "Spoke very highly."

It's game on as I return her poker face with equal stoicism. "Follow me."

I usher her into my office, leaving the blinds shuttered. Luck is on my side, with Vince currently out on another assignment. I already have enough far too much tactical exposure to worry about.

"Interesting new approach," I remark. I pull up my chair and take a seat.

Faith's only concession to relaxation is to continue to stand there, looking awfully intimidating for a woman her size. Of course I know perfectly well what she's capable of. I've seen her in action.

"You're not my problem." Faith makes this not just a statement but a declaration. Her professional demeanor is both like and unlike my smile that offers donuts to unsuspecting colleagues. It's completely false, and yet she believes. Fervently.

"What about my daughter?" I return her calm stare with aplomb. "Because of what she is? You might decide she's your problem."

"You don't know Jack." Faith doesn't sound angry, or even insistent. "And you don't know what you don't know."

"I know she's a Slayer," I say.

I'm not expecting the response I get. Faith's eyes harden and her jaw tightens up as she bites down on the first words that threaten to come out of her mouth.

"You think you know what a Slayer is." Faith shakes her head, like she has only pity for me.

"I know they hunt vampires," I say. "And just a few weeks ago, I wouldn't have believed any of this. But --" I spread my hands. "Here you are."

"You think you're helping. But you're only gonna get hurt." Faith leans forward, hands on my desk as she stares into my eyes. "Maybe more."

"Why are you here in Miami?" I regard her like the puzzle every person is. "Is it Astor? Or Dana?"

Now, that's definitely anger.

"Yeah. Dana. There's a fun story." Faith leans closer, her voice dropping. "She tell you how she was kidnapped? Ten years old, her whole family murdered?"

I don't blink. But my heart quickens.

"How the guy tortured her for months, before she escaped? So the cops pick her up on the street. She spends the next few years in the loony bin, and then -- soon as she's old enough to get her period -- hey, here's the dreams of every Slayer who ever lived. Powers that be, they figure -- why the hell should this girl have any trouble figuring out what's real? No problem, right?" Faith is breathing heavily as she swallows her growing emotion.

"But if she didn't mention any of that?" Her voice is deceptively calm. "You might want to hold off on inviting her to Astor's next slumber party."

My mind whirls with new data. I've already imagined Lumen with the power of a Slayer. Even now, somewhat restrained by the cold comfort of our having executed every one of her tormenters, I wouldn't be surprised to see her take up vigilantism as a full-time endeavor. If Dana is in fact responsible for some of the murders I've photographed and catalogued, then my other theory was correct. I'd be willing to bet that hunting humans isn't in the Slayer Code.

"You think she's acting out?" I make it sound purely hypothetical. "Trying to take revenge for what was done to her?"

Faith's lip curls, a slight snort issuing from her delicate nostrils.

"You think she's cute." Her voice drips with disdain. "That she's..._tame._"

"I wouldn't go that far." I take note of the fact that she's leaning not on her palms, but on her fists. Some people would interpret this as aggression. I have another theory I intend to test later. Assuming I survive this encounter.

Her gaze softens, along with her voice.

"I'm not trying to make this a hard sell." There's that pity again, as she straightens to her full unimpressive height. "But it should be a no-brainer."

I cut to the chase. "What do you want from me?"

"Stay out of my way."

My eyebrows rise. "That's it?"

"Along with _don't go out after dark?_ Kinda common sense."

The perpetual lack of patience that seems to define Faith roars back to the forefront. This time, I have a response.

"Come to one of our training sessions."

She doesn't respond. At least verbally. But I can see her own eyes widen, and then narrow as she attempts to ascertain my angle.

"You've trained other Slayers," I say. I make it very much not a question.

Faith looks increasingly uncomfortable. "So?"

I try on a different smile. "I'd like to see how you train mine."

Faith scowls, folding both arms over her impressive chest.

"Do I look like I have time to hang out with every cute single dad who wants to show how involved he is with his kid?"

I go for the third option. "I'll make dinner."

From the look of things, I may have found her weak spot. Her jaw hardens, along with the glint in her eye.

"Before I go breaking bread with you --"

"Since you've already broken my furniture," I interject.

She levels a glare at me that could melt steel.

"I know for a fact your daughter hasn't killed a single vamp. Or any other kind of demon." Faith cocks one eyebrow, waiting for a response that doesn't come.

"Now you?" she continues, carefully scrutinizing me for any reaction. "I'm not so sure. Whatever training you're giving her aside? Obviously you're not even giving her the chance to take anything down."

"Because I care about her." I try not to sound overly accusatory. "I try to keep her out of trouble."

"Like you said -- she's a Slayer." Faith pronounces it like a death sentence. "Trouble has a way of finding us."

"You made your point," I say. "You have resources of your own. All kinds of information about us."

"That's not my point." Her retort comes quick. "Point is, before I bother any more with you -- not Astor --"

I note the distinction.

"-- you need to come on patrol. With me." Faith looks me directly in the eye. "So you can get a few things through your head."

I frown, in puzzlement and annoyance. "I'm not scared."

"Then you're not all there." Faith utters a little snort of laughter from her nose. "Maybe a thrill seeker."

I pause, then shrug.

"I've...done things. In the past." I chew over my words. "Of that...sort of thing."

"But not now?" Faith views me with unconcealed skepticism. "You're all better?"

I spread my hands, open and clean.

"I don't know what I am." A snort of my own emerges from my nostrils. "But my daughter came to me for help."

"She's not your kid." Faith's words are sharp, her implicit accusation razor keen.

"She might as well be." I glance over at the blinds, watching shadows of my colleagues move to and fro. I can't believe Vince hasn't walked in by now and said something more obscene than ever before.

"So yeah. I'll go out with you." I return my gaze to her. "And the sooner the better."

Faith's laugh escapes from her, as if through restraints. Like she can't help herself. It still makes her look nicer.

"Tonight, huh?"

I nod in confirmation. "Tonight's the night."

I escort her from the office like a gentleman, keeping up a stream of harmless empty chatter. Everyone is oblivious to us apart from Deb, who shoots little daggers from behind an open folder as we pass through. I leave her at the elevator and turn left, as if heading for the lab.

I step around the corner. Then I turn round, come to a halt and hold up my clipboard and pen, chewing on the cap, trying to look lost in thought. My patience is rewarded as Deb comes into view, sprinting through the elevator doors before they can close upon her.

I quickly return to the main office, heading down the far corridor toward the lounge. A tiny, dismal and rarely frequented venue, it also had windows that overlooked the parking lot nearly right where Deb was parked.

My nose and fingers press against the glass. Then I pull back as my breath fogs the view. 

I'm no expert in these things. But I have to wonder.

That definitely looks like a lover's quarrel.

  


* * *

  


"Ugh." Deb groans, fumbling with her shoelaces, trying not to fall over. 

"Have a seat." I guide her to the couch and prop her feet up on the table. "Want some water?"

"No." It comes out rather forcefully. I suspect she's doing her best not to vomit.

"Trust me, it's the best thing." I finish removing her shoes and stash them under the couch, wrinkling my nose. "I'll put it on the table for you. Just in case."

"You're such a good fuckin' brother." Deb curls into a ball, wrapping around the body pillow that spans nearly the length of the couch. "And get me a wastebasket..."

"On it." I slide the makeshift bucket into place and give her shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Get some rest."

By the time I finish washing my hands and bring back a bottle of water from the fridge, Deb is fast asleep. I leave the bottle by her head as promised, and heave a sigh as I head for the car to fetch my bag.

_Are you sure this is worth it?_

"Sometimes, you pick the most inconvenient moments." I glance around as I reenter Deb's apartment. An instinctive habit.

_You used to have a lot more instinctive habits._ Harry follows me down the hall, giving the bag in my hand a hard look. _I'd say you're starting to overthink things._

"So you can judge Dana, but not the person who wants to bring her in?" I'm already pulling out the various testing components: Regular, magnetic, even flourescent. When it comes to field kits, our employers at Miami Metro spare little expense.

_You drugged your sister._ Harry actually sounds shocked. _Sent her home sick from work. On a hunch?_

"On a reasonable set of circumstantial evidence." I pull prints from the telephone, followed by the coffeepot. "Don't you want to know who we're dealing with here?"

_I'd say you're reaching too far._ Harry glances over at Deb, snoring on the couch. _Maybe in the wrong direction._

"And where would you suggest?" I cast my eye about the living room for possible surfaces.

_What about Rita's look a like?_ Harry's put-upon patience shows no sign of giving way. _And the other one with her? You could end up fighting a war on three fronts. To what end?_

"You're right. I need to know who I can rely on." I head into the bedroom, steeling myself for what's likely to come. "I need to know who they are."

Thankfully, Harry refrains from speaking while I lift prints from the bedposts.

As well as the handcuffs.

  


* * *

  


"Hey, Dex." Vince hails me without looking up from his post at the microscope. "Deb feeling any better?"

"She was asleep when I left." I unload my treasures, wondering if I should risk outside involvement.

"Well, that's a decent straight line in and of itself." Vince turns in his chair to face me, adjusting his glasses. "But the proper response for a good brother is, _How would I know? I've never felt her._"

I blink in bemusement, offering an uncertain smile as he does what he calls his Butthead laugh. Like Faith and Dana talking about Slayers, you could hear the capital letter when Vince put a name to it.

"Whatcha got there?"

Too late now. "Vince, I'm going to ask you to do something that potentially skirts the bounds of ethical behavior."

"Sounds serious." Vince looks uncharacteristically so. "What's up?"

I take a deep breath and hold up my collection of prints.

"I need you to find out if my sister is sleeping with that social worker."

Vince doesn't bat an eye as he reaches out and grabs the entire stack. The prints are all Deb, Astor and myself. Until we get to the bedpost.

"Remember," I caution. "Mum's the word. Unless you want to experience manual castration with no anesthesia."

"Not on my kink bucket list." Vince mimes zipping his lips shut, tossing an imaginary key over his shoulder. "Mum's the word. Especially if you're into milfs."

I make sure he's fully reengaged with his own work as I gather up all the evidence. Then I pull out a tray of vials, looking like I'm ready to run an unrelated test of my own. It probably isn't necessary, but Vince is sitting sideways from me rather than with his back turned. What with everything else going on in my life, I feel safer being sure.

Vince continues to run down his sample checklist. With a slight cough to cover the sound, I hit _ENTER_.

I've already disabled the bell on completion. I'm in the middle of sorting my decoy tray of vials when I see the alert window pop up.

"Hey, I just remembered I have an untouched Cuban in the break room fridge." I catch Vince's eye, finding it receptive. "You get it, I'll split it."

"Done and done." Vince takes a moment to jot down some notes. Also to wash his hands.

The door swings shut. I wait for him to disappear from sight before I hit _PRINT_. Then I dismiss the window, secure in the knowledge that the job is already safely in the buffer.

Seconds later, I'm staring at a high color printout.

Of a mug shot. Informing me that the state of California lists Faith Lehane as

_WANTED_

for

_DOUBLE HOMICIDE_

and considers her to be

_ARMED AND DANGEROUS_.

"I didn't see it," Vince says as he reenters the office. He doesn't sound too broken up. Keeping food in any workplace is usually a lost cause.

"I'll buy lunch tomorrow," I reply, folding the printout and stuffing it in my pocket. "Just to make it up to you."

If Astor were coming along tonight, I might be more concerned.

As it is?

I am _really_ looking forward to this.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Slayer takes our humble narrator out on the town.

"So she used a fake ID to get inside the police station."

"Apparently."

"To talk to you."

"Apparently."

"And she's like Astor, and this other girl -- Dana?"

"Definitely."

"Except she's _after_ Dana?"

I shrug. "Apparently?"

Lumen makes a fist and socks me in the bicep, less than gentle. We're lying on my bed fully clothed, her nestled into my chest with our arms around one another. The window is open and curtains are fluttering in the breeze. It feels good.

"This is crazy." Lumen's worry is a mild sour note amidst the serenity. "It's got to be some secret government project."

"Well, I couldn't say for sure." I shrug, my hand resting atop the curve of her hip. "But I don't think so."

I feel her drawing back to look at me. I turn my head to do the same, and find her unsurety taking on a more cynical awareness. It's a look I remember well.

_How do I know you didn't kill these girls?_

She swallows, looking down at her hand on my chest.

"I still can't believe I fucked you."

I cough. Lumen looks up to my clearly disapproving eyebrow.

"Fine." She doesn't roll her eyes, nor even sound impatient as she allows herself a very slight smile. "I still can't believe I slept with you."

I have to think for a second. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No --" Lumen sits up, hand still on my chest. It feels like it's both to keep me from moving and to reassure me that she's not going anywhere.

"No," she continues, quieter. "It was -- it was good." A heavy sigh. "At the time."

I have a reputation as a good listener. It's times like these I find it hard to maintain.

"Even though in hindsight it seems like the worst possible time --" Lumen breaks off, apparently in reaction to the look on my face. "No! Not like -- I'm not --"

"It's okay." I've found this truism just as likely to aggravate emotions as it is to calm them. But Lumen shakes her head.

"All the way here -- the whole time on the plane, in the cab -- I thought about it." Her fingers graze along the surface of my shirt, pressing into the flesh beneath. "I wanted to. I _want_ to," she concludes, more forcefully.

I venture a cautious interjection. "But..."

"But even without Astor around, like right now -- every time I try, or think about trying, I just --"

I wait a decent interval before presuming to finish her thought. "Freeze up?"

A silent nod of confirmation. Her left hand rises to her shoulder then rubs at the back of her neck, as if to soothe away pain.

"Do you know why?"

"A lot of things." Her gaze points over my shoulder toward my dresser. I know the photograph she's looking at.

Who she's looking at.

"When Astor and Olivia first showed up there -- your old place?"

I nod.

"Remember the next morning? I was making breakfast. And Harrison --"

"He said Mama." The awkwardness comes flooding back, more intense than before as I picture my son in my arms. "Astor didn't take it well."

"Talk about the worst possible timing." Lumen bows her head, then looks back up with glistening eyes and a wobbly lip. "I feel like she'll never forgive me for that. And it makes me feel bad, but not just for her -- it's like I'm disrespecting her mom."

"Ouch." I continue to hold her hand, inwardly cursing my lack of input. On the other hand, painful experience has taught me that saying the wrong thing is usually worse than saying nothing at all.

"But also because..."

I pump a mental fist in silent victory.

"Because -- it's like, the first time? After we --" She stumbles and swallows, her voice falling to a whisper. "I was so out of my mind. For so many reasons, and --"

Her hand balls into a fist. Clenches, then relaxes, as she opens her fingers and stares at her palm. I wonder if she's imagining holding a knife.

"I'm not saying it was temporary insanity. And I'm definitely not saying you took advantage of me." A deep breath, and a shaky exhalation. "I just..."

I wait. As long as it takes.

"I almost feel like I'm two different people. Before..." She holds up her hand, palm up, then allows it to fall. "And after. And as hard as the before one tries..."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"It's never enough."

A short pause becomes longer, stretching into uncomfortableness.

Lumen looks back at me, hesitant about everything. Including whether to worry.

"Say something."

"I was going to give a hug." My own hesitation shines through loud and clear. "I think that's what people do in these situations."

"Yes." And slowly, the tension fades from her face, from the rest of her body. Lumen sinks into me once more, snuggling deeper, hugging back. "They do."

  


* * *

  


"I don't need a sitter."

Astor's voice is just on the civil side of a growl. I sigh internally, and resist the urge to cradle my forehead in both hands. That would be a show of weakness. Which would be important even if my stepdaughter wasn't capable of bench pressing a Buick.

"I promised your grandparents you were going to have proper supervision at all times." I put extra stress on the last three words. "And before you pull out the whole 'but I'm a Slayer' --"

"I wasn't --" Astor shuts her mouth at my raised eyebrow, stewing silently in her outrage.

Outside Lumen stands on the balcony, Harrison in her arms, the two of them gazing out over the bay. It hadn't taken much escalation on Astor's part for our new guest to decide that absence might make the heart grow fonder. Or at least less hostile.

"There's still a lot you need to learn." I hold Astor's gaze, not letting her look away. "Agreed?"

I can see her wanting desperately to say something very sarcastic. The fact that she's struggling for self-control is a good thing. Or should be, from a Harry perspective. Control your emotions, or they control you. In me, he had found the perfect test subject. Everyone believed me to be without emotion. And so I had responded in kind.

"Yes." Her level of grudge appears well within my limits of tolerance. But her frustration is plain, even to a social cripple like myself.

"I didn't say anything to Lumen." I keep my voice low, watching the balcony in my peripheral vision. "But Faith's taking me out on patrol."

Astor blinks, and frowns in puzzlement. "Patrol?"

"Basically, vampire hunting. And whatever else might rear its ugly head." I look her dead in the eye, trying to emphasize the gravity of the situation. "We need to know more about all this stuff. And whether we can trust what Faith says."

Her gaze sharpens. "About Dana?"

"About a lot of things." I try to convey the importance of what I'm entrusting her with. "You could ask why she was fighting that other Slayer."

Between Astor's abilities and Lumen knowing the location of my weapons stash, I feel relatively comfortable leaving the kids with her, even after dark. I tell Astor that I'll call when I'm outside the door, and not to let anyone but Deb in under penalty of eviction. Astor still harbors some degree of suspicion and resentment, though I'm not sure where it's directed. That level of behavioral analysis remains a mystery to me.

The only thing I can't decide is whether to tell them about Faith and Deb. In the end I opt to remain silent, if only because I have to admit I don't know much about that relationship. Except that it bears further investigation. I also realize that broaching the subject with either Lumen or Astor requires a vastly different approach. At the moment, I don't feel up to either of those particular challenges.

Faith arrives on time, an hour before sunset. She's back in the jeans and denim jacket I remember from her post-bikini days; hair down around her shoulders, loose and flowing as the rest of her. I can imagine Astor moving that way someday. Like some great beast, stalking its prey.

Is this really the life I want for her?

_What about what she wants?_ Harry stands at my desk, observing them with me from across the room. _Have you even asked her?_

"She said she wanted to stay with me." I'm watching Lumen, who sits watching Faith like a hawk. The latter is slowly winning Astor's grudging acceptance with a combination of martial advice and obvious affection for Harrison. The badass older girl image certainly doesn't hurt.

_And you took her back in. Knowing everything you do._ Harry shakes his head in dismay. _Even with her powers, you're putting her at risk. Harrison too._

"I'm starting to think you might not be the best source of advice on parenting a teenage girl." I check my pockets one more time, finding everything in order.

_Dexter, you were always my first priority. From the moment I found you._ Regret smolders deep within that ghostly gaze. _Deb had to take second place. It was inevitable._

"I'm sure she'd take great comfort in that," I mutter under my breath.

_Dexter._ Harry stares at me with a mixture of surprise and something else. _Was that sarcasm?_

"I don't know." I watch Faith exchange a few quiet words with Lumen. Astor watches from the couch, Harrison in her lap. "What else would you call it?"

_I'm proud of you, son. Seriously._

With Faith heading my way, I elect not to reply. Instead I plaster on a smile and wave to the living members of my family. I think about decisions, and how old a person should be in order to make them.

"Thanks for not giving her the hard sell," I say as we descend the staircase. "About signing up for the Slayer thing."

"You don't." Faith scans the parking lot with the seasoned eye of what I now recognize as a fugitive. "Job picks you, whether you want it or not. Up to you how to deal with it."

"You as in her?" I indicate my car before realizing she's already heading straight for it. I should have known she'd have eyes on me.

Could that be why this thing with Deb? Faith getting close to my sister as a way of finding out more about me? I think to myself as we fasten our seatbelts that it may not be a good idea to ask.

From the back seat, Harry smiles in the rearview mirror. 

_You're learning, Dex._

Hardly, I think. As Vince would say, this one isn't exactly rocket science. More like common sense.

_But the kind of sense you've never shown before._ Harry gives a nod of encouragement. _You're developing it now. Every time you open up to Astor. Every time you show her that you're there for her._

This seems a bit at odds with his previous advice. I'd respond aloud, but I don't want Faith to get the wrong impression about me.

"We're gonna head downtown. But first?" Faith rolls down her window, fingers lightly drumming the edge, regarding me with a look of frank appraisal. "I want to know Darla has such a hard-on for you."

I don't say a word. I pull my wallet from my pocket, flip it open and hand it over, carefully watching her face.

I don't have to watch that carefully. Her eyebrows immediately bounce upward, followed by contracting in a frown and squint as she brings the photo closer to her face, eyes narrowing in concentration.

The image itself I know all too well. I haven't looked at it since Rita was murdered. But it's as perfectly preserved in plastic. As plain in my mind as the look on my mother's face when she said:

_Close your eyes._

We'd spent the day at the beach with the kids. The four of us, together. And as the red sun was sinking toward the horizon, Rita had thrust her phone into the hands of an obliging stranger to take our picture as a family. A few tries later, one of them had turned out to be everything Rita was hoping for. I don't actually look too bad in it, for one thing -- only slightly confused, which is less than normal for me. Mostly it's Rita being her usual charming self and holding me close. Astor and Cody are hugging us from either side, wearing enormous grins of their own.

Faith looks up at me and shakes her head, exhaling a puff of air. "Mind if I show this to someone?"

I shrug. "Be my guest."

She digs out a phone from her jacket and snaps a photo. Then she twiddles her thumbs, apparently adding a comment before nodding and stuffing it back away.

"I'll say this much." Faith looks over at me with something new in her eyes. "That answers that question."

I hazard a guess. "As to why she's got such a hard-on?"

Faith snorts. "Hole in one."

  


* * *

  


The ride is conducted mostly in silence. Faith directs me to the slightly seedier side of downtown, not far from where I first encountered Darla. The club scene doesn't seem quite as happening this time around, but the crowds are still large enough that we can easily blend in. Though as I point out, we don't exactly look like a couple.

"Couple of goddamn idiots," Faith mutters as she stares out the window. Rather than depressed or resigned, she seems weirdly energized, like she's trying to contain or restrain herself.

"I should have my head examined," she continues, seemingly ignoring me. "Oh, wait. I did."

"Oh?"

Faith doesn't appear fooled in the slightest by my casual tone. "Kind of a work requirement."

"Honestly, I was surprised the department didn't want a mandatory evaluation for me." I feel Faith's gaze shift toward me as I come to a stop at the light. "After my wife was killed."

"I heard." From the sound of it, she's read the papers. Maybe the police and FBI reports. "You didn't even take time off."

"I couldn't afford to." I struggle for a kernel of truth in an ocean of lies. "It was all I had."

"What about the kids?" Her question is casual, her intent all too obvious. No need to say more.

"They left." I wait for a group of staggering twenty-somethings to finish clogging up the street before making the turn. "Then...Astor came back."

"And the next thing you know, she's sneaking out at night with a stake in her pocket?"

"Something like that," I concede.

"I've got tabs on the grandparents." Faith sounds utterly serious. "Turn here."

I obey without a thought. The perfect clockwork boy, now a mechanical man.

"If Darla's famous for anything," she continues, "it's messing with family. We're not the only ones who can find this stuff out."

"I appreciate it." I follow her pointing finger to the parking lot, a single bored attendant manning the gate. "Assuming I can trust your people."

"You can trust them to die trying to do the right thing." Her tone sounds equally admiring and disgusted. I suspect she's been accused of that herself.

"I don't suppose you could answer a few practical questions." I couch it as a humble supplicant; not overly fawning, but eager to learn. "About vampires?"

"Fire away." I can hear the shrug in her voice. "Just know I'm not a geek. I don't do science."

"No problem."

"And if you ask me who would win in a fight, a vampire or anything else, I will hurt you."

I quiz her on the basics while I pay the attendant and jockey for a spot. As I've discovered from hands-on experience, decapitation is very much an option when it comes to disposing of the undead. The rest is an interesting hodgepodge of folklore and Hollywood brought to life, with a few odd exceptions. Odd from a scientific standpoint, that is. Vince would be as fascinated as I am.

"How hard would it be to get a blood sample?"

"Don't." Faith's warning is flat, her word final. "Don't think you're the first geek with a few bright ideas."

I settle for redirection. "So what did you and Astor talk about?"

A cynical chuckle drifts over to my side of the car. "There's worse things than pot, but I wouldn't make a career out of it."

"What?" I fumble my keys as we're getting out of the car. "Astor's smoking pot?"

"Tried it a couple times." Faith looks far from concerned. "Think I talked her out of it, but -- you know how it is."

My mind is a blank as I stare at her. "She's thirteen."

Faith looks back, expectant.

"...and a year ago she was helping a friend steal liquor." My cheeks puff out in a hefty sigh. "Among other things."

"Been there." Faith chuckles, not unkindly. "Trust me, so far? You're getting off light."

My growing dismay finds no outlet. Other than to think this just keeps getting better.

"So, dad." Faith shoves her hands in her jacket pockets as she surveys the row of club fronts, their queues stuffed beyond overflow. "Ready for your first demon bar?"

"Demon bar?" I squint at the particularly garish neon display that has her attention. "I thought that was a gay bar."

"I'm kidding." Faith rolls her eyes. "You're waiting outside."

I'm sure my puzzled frown does nothing to dispel her image of me as a hayseed, ready to stumble into a nest of vampires. Is it a nest? And what is the proper collective noun?

I venture an unremarkable statement. "I thought this was supposed to be an educational experience."

"Slayer walks into a demon bar, you know she's looking for trouble. Anyone with her? Instant target." Faith's tone is casual, the look in her eyes anything but. "And one thing that's never been part of the job description is liability insurance. Last thing I need is a cop getting killed on my watch."

"But --"

"No buts." She points to the line next door, stretching out into the street. "Mingle. If you know how."

  


* * *

  


Half of the men standing in line are by themselves. As a result, I don't stand out. It also means they're competing with each other for available women. This leaves me fre to observe the chum-infested waters from my peaceful mental island. Apart from thoughts of Lumen, rippling ever closer to shore. Along with everyone else in my ever-expanding circle that I somehow found myself sworn to protect.

The longer I think about it, the clearer the stakes become in my mind. I know there are still people out there who deserve whatever violent fate might come, a death at my blade or worse. But as shocking as it might be to discover a tribe of creatures existing outside of all human law, it seems far more chilling to realize their relationship to us as a species. At best, we're regarded as enemy soldiers. And always and everywhere, we are food.

The compulsion to kill suddenly seems less compelling. Or rather, the Passenger is slowly coming to realize that it might possibly find a socially acceptable outlet.

Faith hadn't said _vampire bar_.

How many kinds of demons are there? How many crazy stories might be true? And was there anyone who would understand me more than Dana? Someone else with whom I could truly discuss the painful reality of the Code I had been trained to follow?

The crowd surges, carrying me forward. I come perilously close to being shoved up against a buxom brunette in a black dress. Luckily her companion sees me, hauling her out of my path with a triumphant smile.

It seems as good an excuse as any to withdraw. I wear an aw-shucks expression as I turn away, noting again I wasn't alone. A good chunk of the single men, and even some of the couples, have peeled off to the other spots along the strip rather than wait their turn in line. I could wait for Faith at the empty lot on the corner, with very little light to reveal my presence.

_And with God knows what waiting in the shadows._ Harry's eyes are invisible, enormous dark holes in the shadow light as he sends a pointed look at the illuminated storefront on the far side of the street. _You can see just as well from inside. And it's far more defensible._

"Nothing I do is defensible." I continue moving forward, leaving the light behind as I walk toward the darkness. "But demons don't live by our rules."

_Dexter --_

"And I don't have to live by yours."

I can't tell if Harry's still following.

I don't even know if he's there.

"I still choose to." My words are low, almost subvocal. "I still follow..." I have to think about it. "Most of them."

I turn and take up position.

"But I can't keep doing the same thing over and over. I mean --" I stifle a laugh. "We all know what that means."

Harry remains silent.

"It's time to try something different."

The night is balmy and moist, with almost no wind. I flex my fingers, alert for the slightest of sounds as I watch the door where Faith went inside.

I'm almost taken by surprise when she comes back out.

The only unusual thing is the manner of her exit. Which is airborne, headfirst. Part of me is still expecting a faceplant, or even a broken shoulder. But Faith just lands and rolls and comes to her feet like she does this every day, never missing a beat as her motion turns into a run, top speed down the middle of the street as the door behind her slams open and a pair of somethings break into hot pursuit, cackling like demented hyenas. Their howls echo off the buildings and roll through the concrete jungle, warning all and sundry to run.

Or face them.

Faith is approaching the perimeter of the parking lot. I step forward, raising my hand.

Her eyes widen as she looks up.

Over my shoulder.

I freeze at the sensation of nearness. Of a massive bulk rising up behind me, towering overhead like a basketball player; smelling like a dead Saint Bernard that sat out too long in the rain. 

Claws brush my neck.

_"Hey there, cutie."_


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dexter demonstrates some dashing dance moves. Darla returns offscreen, forcing more honesty. And a new threat looms from an unexpected direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With each new update, I keep thinking this story is about 75% complete. At this point, that estimate may be slightly more accurate than before. I still need to flesh out the end, so we'll see if I can wrap everything up in 16 chapters. I can see feeling the need to go to 20, but hopefully not much further.

The cold and leathery grip on my shoulder is beginning to tighten when I move. A high-pitched snarl greets my evasion, accompanied by a whiff of displaced air from behind.

Faith steps in and turns round, her back up against mine as she holds her pursuers at bay. The hyena-things are even more repugnant up close. They move slightly upright on four legs, more like apes. One grins and drools and paws at the ground, seemingly eager to pounce. The other hangs back and circles and growls, never taking its eyes from the Slayer.

"Here." I look down to see the hilt of a knife, being handed to me. A rather large and effective looking one. "You're gonna need it." 

"Thanks." I flash a smile and a blade. "I brought my own."

The hyena-things are backing away as a mirror image of the thing towering over me strides toward Faith, wrapping one hand around the other fist. The crack of its knuckles is the least ugly thing about it. The one I'm facing is tall and thin, more like a basketball player than the beefy broadside build of a Little Chino. Its skin is rough and hangs somewhat loosely, thickening to plates over its limbs and torso. More than anything else, it reminds me of an armadillo. With teeth.

_"Aw, you're no fun."_ More teeth are on display as the armadillo grins from ear to ear. I don't see any actual ears.

"Try not to die." Faith's back is warm against mine. "I'm shit at that whole loved ones speech."

Then we're separated. Everything is moving very fast.

Except it's not.

I've been in life and death situations more often than most people. I would say more times than I can count, if I didn't remember every one with unfortunate crystal clarity. If I didn't have a box full of evidence hiding inside my air conditioner serving as an admittedly incomplete catalog of my crimes. 

I twist and dodge, maintaining arm's length with short jabs of the blade. Part of my lack of fear, I realize, is the outlandish appearance of this thing. I find it fascinating. Unlike Darla, who had cut to the heart of what passed for my soul with her dead ringer resemblance to my deceased Rita. Not to mention the obvious fact of actual vampires being naturally and intimately intertwined with my own lifelong obsession.

My considerable knife skills are barely getting a workout, and my lack of fear is fast becoming actual annoyance. I back away with a quick glance at Faith. She doesn't seem to be looking at me, seems to be busy fending off the other demon.

Except I've seen her in action for real. Unleashed, unrestrained, full bore and all out. The difference takes less than half a second to see.

_"What's the matter?"_ A rich, throaty rumble emanates from my opponent. It follows my slow, sidewise steps like a linebacker stalking a cheerleader. _"Dontcha wanna play?"_

"That's the problem." I let my left hand dangle, hidden from my stalker's angle of view.

A hearty slurp echoes over the asphalt. _"What's that?"_

I let my contempt shine through. "I don't play."

A roar fills my ears. Its arms swing forward, in an attempted bear hug.

I'm already ducking underneath. Watching the shadow where its right arm turns into a solidly muscled shoulder.

My fist rockets upward.

Clenched tight around a syringe, as the needle slides into an unprotected armpit.

The bellow of rage becomes a wordless cry of confusion. At triple the normal dose of M99, I'm expecting anything from unconsciousness to death. Maybe convulsions. Faith and the other creature are paused mid-grapple, staring as my victim gently sways on its enormous tri-toed feet.

_"Thass...not..."_

The demon struggles for words. Its craggy jaw works in circles, as if to dislodge a mouthful of peanut butter.

Then the earth trembles as the massive body plummets forward and plants itself face first in the pavement. Little giggles and chuckles ooze from its drooling lips, interspersed with helpless moans. A sigh of annoyance cuts through the light burbling that emanates from my fallen foe.

I look over to find Faith looking back at her own attacker with an impatient frown. The second demon looks to be on the verge of beating a hasty retreat, frozen under the weight of the Slayer's glare.

"Yo." Faith's tone is friendly, her smile anything but. "I paid for the full hour."

"Lady, you didn't tell me we were gonna be fighting some --" The demon sends a nervous glance in my direction. "Some kinda -- rogue demon hunter!"

Faith sighs, looking more annoyed. 

"Hey, we did everything like you said." I can almost see the beads of sweat breaking out on its panoramic forehead. "You really gonna bust my egg sacs over this?"

"Then beat it." Faith waves him off with a roll of her eyes. I feel somewhat confident in assuming these two are hims. "Before I change my mind."

The demon's relief abruptly turns to disgust as he approaches his fallen comrade. As he takes a quick step back, I notice a growing dark puddle spreading out from beneath the body. I'm pretty sure I didn't use my knife.

"Oh, come on --" The demon breaks off with one look at Faith. With a grimace and sigh, he stoops and grabs his buddy, hoisting one beefy arm across his shoulders. Another grunt of effort is heard as he stands, giving me a baleful glare before turning and shuffling back in the general direction of the nightclub, dragging his partner along with.

"Guess it wasn't a fluke." Faith looks only the slightest bit embarrassed. More like satisfied.

"Pardon?" Though I think I'm starting to figure it out.

Faith flashes me a huge grin that doesn't feel at all fake. "So that's how lab geeks fight dirty."

"You really do like that word." I check my arms for cuts and scrapes. I can feel her eyes. Not watching me, but the knife in my hand.

"So yeah. That was a test." Faith stows her own knife back in her jacket. I can see the holster now.

"I know you're quick on your feet," she continues, "but good reflexes aren't everything. Had to see if your brain measured up."

"I wouldn't want you doing that to my kid." I sound more irritated than is healthy. A healthy Dexter does not demonstrate his heart on his sleeve.

Faith's smile disappears. "Just be glad she didn't have to go through all this three years ago."

I frown, doing a quick calculation. "She would have been ten."

"Aside from that." Faith shakes her head and stuffs her hands in her pockets, staring up at the the lights of an airplane passing overhead. "I mean when the old crew were still in charge."

I think back to the little I've been told. "When there was only one Slayer?"

"Yeah." She laughs, without a trace of humor. Then looks down and laughs again. Quieter, with equal parts humor and cynicism.

"Back when it was just you and your crazy new powers and nobody else. Except a bunch of tweedy tea-drinking Murgatroyds who show up out of the blue to tell you to say goodbye to any freedom you might have thought you had, because your ass belongs to them. And they're gonna lie, manipulate and screw you six ways from Sunday, every way but the fun way."

She sounds like she wants to spit. To cry.

To kill.

"And sooner or later -- probably sooner -- the inevitable night that you go out on their precious mission and you don't come back? They just write it down in their little notebook. 'Jolly regrettable,' they say. And already the next girl in line is wondering what the hell happened, and why she can suddenly derail a train car with her bare hands."

I blink, distracted by a vision. "You can do that?"

"Figure of speech." Faith's grin is back, slightly abashed. "Communication was never my strong suit. Work with me here."

"The way you describe these people --" I fall into step beside her as we head back toward the car. Behind a crowd have gathered outside the bar, oohing and aahing over our pair of attackers. One of the hyena-beasts breaks away from the group to chase after us, only to fall back at the piercing sound of a whistle from the still-upright armadillo demon.

"You said Dana has the memories of every Slayer," I continue. "Because that would mean --"

"She knows all the dirt." Faith delivers this confirmation in a stark tone of grim realism. After dealing with the politics of a police station, I can only imagine the machinations of a secret society who control this kind of power. Or controlled.

"Well, then." I strive for a neutral presentation. The devil's advocate.

"Doesn't that make her the best equipped to see when someone is abusing their power?" I cast a brief glance at her face as we walk. "Especially in the name of the greater good?"

Faith shakes her head, with a reluctant smile. "You sound like a Jesuit."

"I won't ask if that's a compliment." I hit the remote to unlock the car. "And not to sound rude, but how do you know what one sounds like?"

Faith snorts, looking back up at the sky. "He was the guy who evaluated me. More like a ex-Jesuit."

I ponder this. "So he pronounced you fit to go back to work?"

She looks away, sounding equally evasive. "Something like that."

I know that feeling. Like she'd rather talk about anything other than herself.

I step forward and open the passenger door on sheer instinct. Faith looks at me like she's fending off a stalker. Maybe an idiot.

"Never trust a gentleman." But she accepts my hand with a sardonic smile as she hops up and into the vehicle.

I walk around, get in and start the motor. Faith remains silent as I navigate the lot and find the exit. It's not until I've paid the attendant and we've pulled out onto the street that she speaks.

"I'm a murderer."

In my mind I see her face, enshrined in grainy black and white. Mugshots have that way of bringing out a person's soul.

I wrestle with the proper approach before going with honesty. "I know."

She exhales, staring out the window with one knee drawn up, fingers tapping the windowsill. Until they abruptly stop moving; her eyebrows drawing together, as if annoyed at her lack of self-control.

"Friend of mine was in trouble. And not to sound all sorry for myself, but I don't have a lot of those. Even after the white hats let me back on the team."

I have to wonder who those are. But Faith is still talking. I get the distinct impression she's been searching a long time for anyone who might actually listen.

"And this was while I was still on the outs. But the trouble he's in -- it's the kind that spreads. Unless you stomp that shit out. Burn it, salt it, put a stake through its heart. Whatever it takes." She takes a deep breath, with a slight tremble.

"But this guy...he went to bat for me. After I turned on him. After everyone else gave up." Her voice hardens. "If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have made it to prison." 

My instincts keep me watching for signs of pursuit. But I can't see any motor vehicles tailing us. Nor aerial surveillance by pterodactyls, when I look. 

"So I kick his ass. Get him straightened out. And then --"

When I look, her smile is a thing of beauty and wonder. At the world; at herself.

"An old frenemy shows up. Says they need me back on the team." A cynical chuckle. "And I could have said no. Gone back inside, sat in a cell a few more years. Reflected on all my numerous fuckups."

"Language."

Faith turns a disbelieving eyebrow on me.

"Sorry." I finish navigating the onramp. "Habit."

She pauses before giving a quiet chuckle. "Suppose there's worse."

I let her have all the time she needs. I think I'm getting better at this.

"I wouldn't call it a second chance." Her darkened tone implies stains that won't wash out. "But I had the chance...to do better. To do good."

Which is what Dana's trying to do, despite her fractured psyche. Let alone the weight of history riding heavy on her shoulders.

Why can't we all just get along?

"I'm risking a lot even telling you this," Faith says. I can feel the sharpness of her glance. "You work inside the system -- I don't. I can't."

"Believe me, I sympathize." Our exit is fast coming up as I briefly return her gaze. "I'm just looking out for Astor."

Faith takes this in, fingers tapping their way across her upturned kneecap. The resemblance between herself and Astor and Dana is superficial beyond the color of their hair. Still, I wonder if there are any blonde Slayers.

"I try to help people." Faith makes it sound like a weakness. "No matter who they are. But I admit it -- I'm biased. For me, Slayers come first."

"Fair enough." I'm mulling this over when a thought occurs. "Where can I drop you off?"

"Your place works."

Faith sounds once more closed up and walled away. Like she won't take no for an answer. I don't push it. I'm still figuring out how to deal with a teenage daughter.

Not to mention, I reason, this woman has nearly a decade of maturity and hard-earned experience over Astor. Trying to tackle that sort of thing head-on is like facing a charging rhino. But like Lumen, despite her reluctance, it's not that hard to keep Faith talking about herself. It makes me wonder how much research she's been doing on me. Why ask questions when you already know the answers?

She's out of her seat belt as we pull into my apartment; out of her seat as we come to a stop, out of the car before I can utter a word. By the time I fumble the keys from the ignition and make a hasty exit of my own, Faith is nowhere in sight.

I finish stowing my knife in its oilskin wrapping. As I shut the back hatch and check the locks, I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up, do a wild and frantic dance.

I turn and survey the nearly empty lot. The tickle of electricity crawling through my belly is already fading, my tiring eyes unable to discern if the motion of the shrubbery is a trick of the light. I wait, but nothing emerges.

I trudge toward the staircase with a heavy tread, but feeling light at heart. My newest acquaintance is showing the potential to become an actual friend. I just have to serve as mediator between her and her wayward protege. Help smooth things out; get everyone on the same page. And the Dark Passenger is licking its chops at the prospect of a vast unknown demon population, ripe for the plucking.

What could possibly go wrong?

The lights are off in my apartment. I frown and dial the home number, juggling my cell phone with the ungainly oilskin-wrapped package.

I hear it ring through the door. I'm feeling concern begin to distill into worry when the line picks up.

_"Dexter?"_ Lumen sounds ragged and harried, on the verge of tears.

I manage to calm her enough to get her to unlock the door. At which point Astor grabs my arm and yanks me inside, thankfully failing to dislocate my shoulder.

"Hey!" I manage. Astor's hand is on my chest, eyes wide as she feels the beat of my heart.

"Oh, thank God --" Astor slams the door, hurling her stake at the wall with a clatter before wrapping her arms around my torso. Lumen hugs my shoulders, tense and trembling.

"Harrison?" I manage.

"I got him to sleep." Astor slowly disengages from me, not looking at Lumen.

"When?"

"About twenty minutes ago." Astor turns and heads for the hallway, with only a brief glance at us. "I'll go check on him."

I watch her leave the room before realizing Lumen is still very much attached.

"What happened?" I venture.

Lumen swallows, her head on my chest. "Your wife was here."

A painful squeeze envelops my heart. My arm remains steady about Lumen, holding her close.

When she speaks, her voice is scraped and raw from strain. But her words are firm.

"I think you need to start talking."

  


* * *

  


It doesn't open the floodgates. But the faucet is open, and the trickle soon turns to a slow but steady stream of information. How she and Astor had been joking about my new girlfriend, even as Lumen wondered how much Astor wasn't telling her. How they heard a knock at the window, only to be paralyzed at the sight of "Rita", clad in billowing diaphanous white. How my dead wife had implored her daughter to let her inside, all while Harrison cried in his big sister's arms and Astor stared silent at the window clutching a pointy piece of wood. Which all had raised quite a few questions in Lumen's mind, to the point where she doubted her sanity.

Confirming her suspicions did not, in fact, allay her fears. But there were already too many impossible things happening right before her eyes. No matter how ugly, the truth was something of a relief.

"So it's not Rita." Lumen's hands are warm, trailing down and back over my chest and stomach. We've moved to my room and are lying together on the bed, fully clothed. More than simply reassuring herself of my physical presence, it's almost like she's trying to make sure the two of us are still sharing the same universe.

She shudders and closes her eyes. "Still."

"Yeah." All of the psychological weirdness is nicely encompassed. "And I'm told this woman is famous for playing head games. Her and her partner."

Her roving hand drifts across my waistband, then stops. I can feel the subtle tremors in her muscles, the momentary hitch in her breath.

"It's okay." I kiss the top of her head, enjoying the smell of her shampoo. "My first year with Rita, I spent the whole time worrying she might want to have sex."

"Not exactly reassuring." But I can hear her chuckle, feel her relax and sink into my body. For a moment our breathing is perfectly in sync.

"I know it's hard for you." Lumen pauses, choosing words carefully. "To talk about her."

"I have to talk to someone." Preferably someone other than the ghost of Harry.

"So does Astor." Lumen shakes her head, taking in the enormity of the situation. "I hope she'll talk to me."

I hold her tight, listening to her breathe. "So do I."

We fall asleep entwined together.

All night long, I hold Lumen in my arms.

I have a hard time believing any sex could be as good as this.

  


* * *

  


Unfortunately, it seems as if the universe is determined to balance the scales. Because the following day is a domino chain of unrelated mishaps.

It starts out small. You'd think being out of juice is something that simply wouldn't happen in Miami. I make do with coffee, informing Astor that she is to answer whatever questions Lumen might have about the world of the supernatural.

"Like I've got all the answers." Astor's chin is up as she stares back at me before looking away, then down at the floor.

"You should have been here." Her words carry not even the merest hint of accusation. A simple statement of fact.

I give in and reach out, place my hand upon her shoulder. She gives an angry sniffle.

"I know." I remember Harry giving me this speech. Well -- his version. "I won't always be."

She looks up with obvious fear upon her face. I shake my head.

"I'm not going anywhere." I hold her gaze. "But I won't always be around. And you're going to need to figure out who you can trust."

Astor gives a mistrustful glance at the closed door to my bedroom. "She's not a Slayer."

"Neither am I." Score one for didactically dependable Dexter.

Astor looks back at me, at my hand on her shoulder. "That's different."

"At the risk of sounding obtuse," I venture. "What's different about it?"

Her face contorts further as she attempts and fails to give voice to my uniqueness. Better not to have her dwell on some topics.

"Give her a chance." I squeeze her shoulder and release, with mental fingers crossed. "She might surprise you."

  


* * *

  


I don't regret the heart to heart, but I'm already running late. As a result, I forget the donuts for the first time in years. Angel is forgiving as ever, while Vince makes me promise to buy the next two rounds on bowling night. My already irritable sister, for her part, is sufficiently offended by my transgression to call me a fucknugget in front of the entire station before storming off in a righteous huff.

I watch her stalk away, wondering if it's just me. Then I catch Vince watching her stalk away. He quickly wipes the leer from his face.

"Sorry." He manages a rueful grin. "Force of habit."

Even with my best parental glare to keep him in check, I can see Vince's eyes glaze over the rest of the day every time Deb comes within sight. Apparently he's constitutionally unable to resist picturing my sister in the throes of lesbian passion with the stunning social worker who recently paid us a visit. Deb makes nice with me eventually, but seems more than a little defensive. It's always been hard for me to put myself in someone else's shoes. Still, I can't help but empathize with someone who seems worried that everyone will find out the truth.

I spend the next few hours engaged in one of my least favorite pastimes: Namely, filling out paperwork. Every bit of consumable materials we use, from fake blood to victim dummies, needs to be accounted for in order to satisfy the suspicions of Miami Metro's waste reduction team. With the latest budget crisis looming large in the headlines, they've become almost as feared around the precinct as the folks from IA.

I look up to see Vince gesturing through the window. I finish the column I'm on and rise from the chair, grimacing at the twinge in my back.

"What's up?" Whatever it is, it has to be big.

"Don't know." Vince's normally jovial face is a mix of confusion and concern. "I hope they're not still monitoring our Internet."

I follow him to the staff room, where everyone else is already present and seated. Lieutenant LaGuerta stands at the table up front, not looking at us as she shuffles through a huge stack of paper.

I revise my earlier opinion. Whatever this is, it can't be good.

"People, I've got some bad news."

Sometimes, I wish I could more often enjoy being right.

"I'm sure you're all aware of the rumors," LaGuerta continues.

I guess that excludes me.

"First, I want to assure you that despite the ongoing budget crisis, all salaries including overtime are being fully guaranteed by the state government. I have that personally from the Deputy Chief."

"Wait for it," someone mutters.

"But we all knew the cutbacks would hit us at some point. And we're all going to need to tighten our belts if we want to get through this."

"Sure." Deb chuckles bitterly. "We can save on ammo by giving the homicidal of Miami a good talking to."

"Snarky commentary is not going to win the day, Detective." LaGuerta scans the room, looking at each of us in turn. Joey Quinn is watching Deb from the corner of one eye while pretending not to. Otherwise, the room is hers.

"We need to make smart decisions that serve the public interest. And that means triage. It means prioritizing."

"Bullshit." Deb leans forward, fire in her eyes. "It means politics."

"I won't deny there's been pressure from ICE." LaGuerta doesn't raise her voice. "Or from numerous public advocacy groups. But with the new evidence coming in, we can only conclude that the so-called Coyote Killings are not in fact exclusively human traffickers, as was previously --"

An alarm bell goes off in my mind. Someone else has made the connection I made weeks ago. Which means that Dana is in danger. Danger of being discovered.

I look up to see LaGuerta holding a fresh sheet of paper.

"But the real headline here is --" And LaGuerta stops, and smiles. "For once?"

She turns and pins her printout to the corkboard.

"We caught a break."

Dana's eyes are haunted and hollow. Looking off to one side, as the photographer captures the moment.

Captures her, in a cell.

In a straitjacket.

"And we have a suspect."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Compartmentalization is a joke._

Ever since I first stumbled upon the supernatural world that has apparently always been lurking just beneath the surface of known reality, my normal routine has been, shall we say -- disrupted. To say this is putting it mildly is to do a disservice to the language verging upon outright torture. Usually going longer than a couple of months without a kill -- or at least a potential target -- is enough to start causing noticeable stress. Noticeable to me, anyway. My oblivious co-workers are another story.

Apart from my sister. Who at the moment is causing even more stress than usual, having swooped down upon me as we emerge from LaGuerta's briefing. I'm still mulling over how to shield Dana from further investigation when Deb intrudes upon my ruminations.

"You think she did it?" Deb has remained stuck to my side all the way down the hall. "I know, manic people can get pretty crazy. But those bodies --" She looks almost angry as she shakes her head.

"And those were full grown men," she continues. "I just don't see one girl doing that kind of damage. Not someone that size."

It's subtle, but I get the sense that this is some sort of bait. I focus on not letting Deb notice my noticing. When it comes to looking distracted, I'm a pro.

"It is hard to imagine." I frown and squint at my clipboard. "But I'll go over both cases again. See if we missed anything."

"And what about the victims?" Deb shakes her head. "Though I kind of hesitate to use the word. Scumbags like these guys..."

"Like LaGuerta said." I go for another shrug, hoping I haven't exhausted my quota. "It's more than just smugglers at risk now."

"So what's your take? Vigilante?" Deb sounds newly energized. There's a fresh spring in her stride, her heels clacking on hard tile, matching me pace for pace. "Like our power couple from the Barrel Girls?"

"Anything's possible." I try not to sound insultingly skeptical.

"Gee, Dex, try not to stroke my ego too much." Deb's irritation is clear. "Seriously -- you don't have to sugarcoat this shit. A frosted turd is still a turd."

"Not to impugn your -- detecting skills." I hold up both hands, showing my metaphorical belly. Anything past a certain point with Deb typically elicits a defensive reaction. The kind of defense that's basically an incredibly strong offense. "But it does seem like a bit of a stretch."

"Tell you what." She pokes me in the side. "Feed me dinner, and you can let that rabid imagination run wild. You know I always like hearing your theories."

"You buy the steaks." I present it as a done deal rather than a command. "Astor's teenage appetite is going through another growth spurt."

"Done." She grins in that goofy lopsided way, reaching out to open my office door. "After you, Sir Fucknut."

I walk in and deposit my clipboard on the desk, and myself in the chair. "I believe that would be Sir Fuck of Nut."

"Whoa." Deb's eyebrows rocket skyward as her face breaks out in a grin. "Triple word score for Mister Clean."

"Hey." I find myself oddly prickled. "Just because I'm trying to provide a positive environment --"

"Bro. Chill." Deb reaches out and squeezes my forearm. "I think it's sweet. If occasionally annoying as you know what. And on that note -- the sweet note, not the annoying kind --"

I watch her face. She doesn't let go of my arm.

"It's great that you found someone." She smiles, as if to prompt me.

"You mean Lumen." I voice the name with some caution.

Deb nods. Her hesitation is just a moment too long to be casual.

"I think --" She clears her throat. "I might have found someone. I just need to know if I can -- you know."

Her face is doing some very complex and interesting things. A gentleman, I realize, would step in here and save his sister from potential pronoun trouble.

"I understand." I look over and nod a greeting to Vince, who's just entered the office. "We can talk about it over dinner. If you want."

"We'll see." Deb's cheeks are a little pink. "How's seven?"

"That works." I give her a confident smile. "See you then."

I turn back to my computer monitor. As a result, I miss whatever causes Deb to stop in her tracks. I can hear her breathing through her nose as the moment stretches out.

"Vince?" Her voice is deceptively calm. I hear a small choking sound, like someone trying to clear their throat.

"Yeah?" It comes out as more of a squeak.

I turn to see Deb leaning on Vince's desk, staring down at him from nearly her full height.

"You're looking dangerously aroused." Deb continues to stare. "And before you open your mouth, I mean dangerous for you."

Vince opens his mouth and immediately shuts it.

"I'd just like to know," Deb continues, with deceptive calm. "For my own curiosity, if there's any particular reason this morning why you're so much more suicidal than usual?" Her stress on the final three words is outright venomous.

"I haven't been on a date in almost two weeks. I'm sorry." Vince appears to be doing his best to not cower further back in his chair. "Please don't hit me."

Deb's sarcastic snort is more of a bitter laugh.

"And have LaGuerta write me up again? Send me for counseling?" She spits out the hard C like a swear all its own. "I don't think so."

Vince looks ready and willing to commit seppuku on the spot. Fortunately, all of my knives are in the autoclave.

When Deb finally sighs, It's the definitive sound of defeat.

"Just keep it to yourself." She cradles her face in one hand, massaging her temples. "And try not to be too fucking obvious."

The door to my office shuts behind her just soft enough not to call it a slam.

I pat Vince on his trembling shoulder. "Crisis averted?"

"For now." He looks as relieved as he sounds. That is, not at all.

"You know I can't protect you." I find myself experiencing what appears to be a surprising amount of sympathy for his plight. 

"I really hope she comes out soon." Vince shakes his head. "Before I put my foot in my mouth and she breaks it off and beats me to death."

  


* * *

  


Somehow, Vince Masuka leaves Miami Metro that afternoon in one piece. Deb goes home to get cleaned up and ostensibly change into something slightly more casual. As for me, I spend the drive back to my place rehearsing and refining the pitch. It's not going well, to wit: _Lumen? My sister's coming over for dinner. I know it goes without saying, but try not to tell her about you and I being serial killers. Or the part about vampires and demons being real..._

This has to go well.

Though right now, I can't envision what going well would look like.

I step out of the Mommymobile, opening the rear door to grab my bag. When I turn around, glaring dark eyes are right in my face. Actually a few inches below it.

"Saw you." Dana's voice is a low, angry hiss as she stares up at me. I can see her hands. They're dirty, scraped near to raw.

"Okay," I reply. The lack of blood on her hands, or anywhere else, is the only thing keeping me from -- well. Against a Slayer, with no element of surprise or needle full of tranquilizer, I have to admit that what I could do might be very little. I have to wonder how firearms might perform in such a conflict. This is the sort of knowledge that might save my life. Or Astor's.

"Where and when?" I present it as honest inquiry, in no way a challenge.

"Mommy dearest." Dana glares up at me through her bangs, trying to look intimidating. It makes her look shorter. "Don't make me say the eff word."

"Ah." I think I see where this is coming from. "Let's go inside."

She blinks, opens her mouth and pauses.

"The police are looking for you. And a lot harder than they're looking for Faith." I pitch my voice low and friendly, glancing around the parking lot. "You really shouldn't be out on the street."

I can see the turmoil in her eyes. Thousands of personalities, mostly at war with one another, all trapped inside the tortured young woman whose body and soul they inhabit and share. Every last bit of herself in eternal conflict with the rest, struggling from one moment to the next through untold layers of knowledge and meaning. Trust level: Zero.

"All right." Dana doesn't look around as she grabs my arm and half-encourages, half-frog marches me toward the staircase. "Talk."

I don't get a chance to fumble with my keys at the door. Astor sees who's with me as we step inside and her face lights up, her expression changing to horror when Dana shoves me forward. It's almost gentle and I stumble anyway, barely missing the coffee table on my way to the couch.

"Hey!" Astor is already on her feet as Lumen appears in the hallway, her eyes wide. I raise my hand.

"Wait." I turn to Dana. "Close the door, please."

That courtesy taken care of, Dana resumes glaring at me. I sit back on the couch and visibly compose myself.

"Where's Harrison?" I inquire.

Lumen doesn't move. "Taking his nap."

"Let's try not to bother him." I glance over at Astor to assure myself she's staying put. "Now why don't you tell me what you think I did?"

"Dexter?" Lumen hasn't moved an inch. "Who is this?"

"Somebody snitchin'." The Baltimore accent is abruptly thick enough to feel laid on with a trowel. Dana gives a violent shake of her head, as though she's trying to dislodge something.

"This is Dana -- wait a minute." I lean forward with a frown, showing plainly my lack of comprehension.

"You didn't know the police were after you," I continue. "Until just now. When I told you."

"Two and two together." Dana's hands twist and turn and rub one another, not quite forming into fists. "Had to be her."

I'm still trying to follow. "You mean Faith?"

Dana gives me a look of pity, as if I'm clinically oatmeal-brained: _Who the hell else would it be?_

"I don't know." I spread my hands to indicate my lack of a clue. "Don't you share her experiences? Her knowledge? Wouldn't you know if it were her?"

Her frown grows angry before dissolving to annoyed realization.

"Don't know everything." Dana shakes her head as she looks down and away. She seems embarrassed at forgetting something so obvious as her unwanted psychic connection with her fellow Slayers. "Doesn't work that way."

"You must have been pretty angry." I glance over toward Lumen. "Can she sit down now?"

"Very." Dana raises her head again, looking at Lumen. "Sorry. Yes. Please."

"That's okay." Lumen sounds sufficiently mollified, but her eyes never stray from Dana.

"I don't know everything that's happened between you and Faith," I continue. "But I'm not here to take sides. I just want to resolve things peacefully."

"Where were you last night?" Astor doesn't sound outright suspicious as she directs this question at Dana. Still, there's an element of confrontation in her voice, of the sort that I had been trying to avoid. "Why weren't you here?"

Dana doesn't rise to the bait.

"Should have been." Dana utters a tiny laugh. "So many places to be."

Astor's voice is quieter, her accusation keener still. "Where were you?"

"Helping. Not Slayers." Dana swallows, her own voice cracking. "Nobody helps them."

It's a compelling argument. Except I can almost hear Faith's response in my head: _You help normal people by being a Slayer. By killing demons, not going around executing non-demon life forms._ In other words: Let humans deal with the human threat.

"We have the police," I say, as gentle as I'm able. "The FBI --"

"Can't look away." Dana's gaze is once again full of pity. Only this time, more forgiving. "Can't hide. Have to."

I glance over at Lumen. The pain in her eyes is all too clear. I can see her need to give it voice, even as she hesitates due to Astor's presence.

"Have to --" And Dana finally looks down, swallows before she continues. "Do something."

"What did you do?" This comes from Astor. My daughter -- for as I realize, this more and more is how I regard her -- is gazing at her older sister Slayer with a burning and intense curiosity. I'm not entirely comfortable with where this is going.

"It's hard." Much to my relief, Dana appears reluctant to discuss her exploits in detail. "Using my own words."

"It's okay." Astor pats the couch beside her. "Do you want to sit down?"

I nod to Astor as our guest does so. With any luck, the three of us will be able to keep the situation deescalated.

It turns out that Dana's story goes back further than we could have imagined. All of the sparse details of Faith's brutal description are present in our guest's halting, hypnotic narrative: Her entire family murdered when she was ten years old, she'd been taken captive by the man responsible. Held prisoner for months, drugged and tortured until she finally escaped. Only to be found wandering in the street and held prisoner for fifteen years in a psych ward, drugged into chemically induced submission. Until a medication mixup allowed the newborn Slayer to fully awaken. Crazed and confused beyond all hope, she had murdered several people and been on the verge of doing the same to a vampire with a soul. Two different ones, actually -- 

"Soul?" Astor's interruption is marked by outright confusion. "What do you mean -- with a soul?"

"The soul is the difference." Dana doesn't hesitate one second in her reply. "Like night and day. Not every demon is dangerous. Or evil. But they don't have a soul."

That seems straightforward. Apart from the whole concept of _soul_.

Lumen doesn't hide her skepticism. "Except for these two vampires?"

Dana hesitates, then relaxes, letting out a gust of air in a light chuckle. "It's complicated."

I try not to sound like a smartass. "Any good books on the subject?" 

"Talk to the Watchers." Another exhalation from Dana, this time in the form of a cynical snort. "They're the ones who write the history."

Astor looks to be considering everything she's just heard, as well as how it impacts everything previously known. She cocks her head, turned sideways on the couch to look at Dana.

"How old are you?"

"I have trouble keeping track." Dana looks more embarrassed than annoyed. "Twenty-five."

"Wow." Astor's eyebrows rise as she does an internal calculation. "You're almost twice as old as me."

Dana's face pinches up in obvious distaste. "Thanks."

Astor giggles, leaning forward and putting her hand on Dana's knee. "Sorry."

Lumen gives me a slight sidewise look. The message is plain as day: _Well, she seems calmer now._

Despite my sympathies, I remain alert. As far as her history, Faith wasn't exaggerating. Dana really is -- as my sister would say -- a fucking loose cannon more than ready to go off. And apparently has been ever since she arrived in Miami, leaving a trail of red.

"How do you do it?" All the pain of her own mother's death seems wrapped up in Astor's question, the anguish in her eyes. "How do you go on?"

Dana gazes back, full of sympathy.

"It's different for me. I have my sisters. It's --" Dana pauses, and laughs. "Kind of crazy."

Astor loks uncomfortable even as a reluctant smile fights at the corners of her mouth. But Dana's already moved on.

"I miss my family. My mom and dad...my brother." She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly as her eyes return to focus. "But they're not coming back."

A fraction of a flinch. Astor swallows and doesn't blink.

"Besides." And Dana looks resigned. Not devoid of hope. Just accepting of reality, and of her fate.

"All my sisters," she continues. "All those Slayers. So many stories...so much worse than mine."

Again she meets Astor's gaze head on. Her pain revealed to the fullest, even as -- perhaps for the first time -- she accepts it with a shrug.

"It's a little too much fucking perspective."

Astor cocks one eyebrow. "Language."

The two of them burst into subdued giggles. I hear a snicker beside me, and turn to see Lumen hiding a smile.

Astor draws Dana close and hugs her tight. The gesture is returned with full force, and I feel something relax in my gut.

  


* * *

  


I wouldn't mind having another dinner guest, but Deb alone will be enough of a challenge. Maybe next time. I watch from the balcony as Dana takes her leave, surrounded by the rich orange glow of the setting sun. 

Lumen is messing with pots and pans, poking her way through the cabinet. "Scalloped potatoes again?"

"You don't have to --" I stop and cock my head, when it hits me. "You're bustling."

"What?" Lumen looks confused for a second, then taken aback. "No, I -- I wasn't."

"Just because I don't see it very often doesn't mean I don't recognize it." I nod, more sure than ever. "You were bustling."

"I -- wow." And Lumen laughs, her mouth wide open and smiling. "Is that bad?"

"What?" For a split second I draw a blank. "No, just -- no. By all means. Bustle away."

Lumen shakes her head. "If I didn't know you were crazy, I'd worry about you."

I'm still trying to parse that when my pocket vibrates. I dig out my cell to find a local number, identified as UNKNOWN.

_Do you feel lucky?_

"Hello?"

_"Hey, Dex."_

Speak of the devil.

"Hello, Faith."

_"Sup?"_ From the corner of my eye comes a flash of Lumen's concerned features.

"I didn't give you this number."

_"I know."_ Faith's semi-tinny voice echoes as I hold the phone slightly away from my ear, turning the volume up as Lumen and Astor crowd in close. Putting someone on speaker changes the acoustics too much.

"So is this more showing me what you can do?" I do my best not to pile it on. "Because really, this is PI one oh one."

_"More like I wanted to talk."_ Faith actually sounds somewhat relaxed. _"Besides. Now you got my number."_

Lumen rolls her eyes, giving me a warning scowl.

"I wouldn't exactly say that." For a moment, my tongue is empty. "I assume there was more to it?"

_"Well -- since you asked."_ A light chuckle. _"Figured I'd take you up on that dinner."_

I should have seen this coming. I know all of the reasons this is a very, very bad idea.

"Fantastic." Do I actually sound jovial? I do, by Jove. "How's seven?"

_"Overrated. But I always love me some Brad Pitt."_ Another chuckle. _"See you then."_

I turn to Lumen and Astor as I hang up. Both of them are looking back at me with slightly differing degrees of dissonance. Lumen is the first to finally break the silence.

"Didn't you say your sister was coming?"

I nod, adding unnecessary verbal confirmation. "Yep."

"Ah." Lumen does not look reassured. "I have no idea why I'm sensing a trainwreck."

Astor looks back and forth between us. "What's wrong with Aunt Deb?"

"Nothing." I shake my head. "Why don't you go check on Harrison? He always needs a little time to wake up."

  


* * *

  


Faith surprises me by being the first to arrive. Also by being slightly dressed up, in that she's wearing khakis instead of jeans. She also comes bearing a bottle of wine, swearing it was personally picked out by the guy behind the counter. It's a red, which usually covers most flaws. She also carries a twelve-pack of something dark and imported.

"Covering all bases?" I accept the beer with a smile. "Or hedging your bets?"

"Pretty sure that's a mixed metaphor." Faith punches me in the arm with a grin, just hard enough to remind me of what she can actually do.

Lumen does appear somewhat flummoxed by Astor's abrupt reversal of allegiance. I think I understand. They'd been bonding quite nicely, until some stranger with a sketchy reputation walks in and sucks up all the love in the room. It results in mild tension until Faith concludes her business with Astor to rejoin the adults in the kitchen.

"Don't expect much." There's a glint in Faith's eye as she rolls up her sleeves. "I'm just being polite."

Lumen's eyes travel over the mound of precisely chopped carrot slices, produced in mere seconds by a flash of the blade. "I'd hate to see you get serious."

"I always told B --" Faith stops, the twirling knife in her hand likewise coming to a halt. It's not quite a stumble, but for a few extra moments you can see the wheels turning in her head. Deciding just how much to say, and just how to say it.

"I was gonna say my boss." She laughs, a deep and cynical sound that in no way matches the pain in her eyes. "Then, I was gonna say partner. Except -- turns out she's like me. Not so good at relationships." 

I finish drying my hands and check the time. I hope Deb brought enough for everyone.

"No matter what you call it. So let's just call her what she is. The queen." Faith finishes rinsing her hands and takes a seat at the counter, popping the top from a beer with a sour look. "Queen bee."

"Queen -- of the Slayers?" Lumen appears suitably impressed. "Is that, like -- official?"

"Like any title. Depends who you ask." Faith shrugs and looks up from her beer. Her overall mien is one of weariness, combined with resignation. "Really, I just give her the business. Because..."

She trails off, then gives a little laugh, not quite embarrassed.

"No one else is gonna do it." Faith shrugs. "Not for the right reasons."

Lumen doesn't look up from the cutting board, left hand holding the onion steady as her knife glides to and fro. Little paper-thin wisps fall away with each stroke of carbonized steel.

"So like I always told her," Faith continues. "If the Slayer thing doesn't work out? Could always get an Iron Chef gig."

That draws a chuckle from Lumen.

Faith takes another swig from her bottle. "Course, she always said I'd be on Kitchen Nightmares."

Our happy little domestic soiree is interrupted by a knock at the door. As perfunctory as ever when I happen to know who's on the other side.

I cross the few feet in the space of two seconds. In the third, the door is open.

"Hey, Dex." Deb thrusts a bag of meat into my arms. "Hope you got the iron warmed up. Cause I could eat a half a cow right n--"

Astor is watching very intently from the couch where she sits with Harrison. I'm guessing that her presence is the only reason why all hell fails to break loose.

"Well." Deb's eyes drill into Faith from across the room. I can almost hear the lasers firing. "Didn't know you had company."

"I think we both got blindsided." Faith pushes her beer away, rising from her seat with a troubled look. But Deb is shaking her head.

"Outside." Unpleasantness glitters deep in my sister's eyes. "Now."

Faith catches my eye and gives a little shrug, as if to say: _Here we go._

My hand comes to rest on Lumen's as I watch them walk out the door. As it swings shut I can already hear Deb unleashing a veritable torrent of fucks. A downright deluge, in fact, the gist of which is accusing Faith of sleeping with her in order to get closer to her brother.

I guess this confirms part of my theory. As well as Vince Masuka's wildest dreams.

Astor's eyes are wide, her surprise on the verge of detonation. I catch and hold her gaze, conveying admonition both strong and silent. As she covers her mouth, her entire body begins to quiver with what appears to be laughter.

Lumen is wearing an odd expression of her own. It's very close to the one on her face the first time I pulled out a spray bottle in front of her, using it to reveal a trail of blood she herself had spilled. 

"You knew what this was." Faith's voice is muffled through the door, not quite a growl. "Right from the start. Was I ever not clear? Did I ever once lead you on, in any way?"

"I know what you said." Deb spits out the last word.

"Deb --"

"No idea how long, could leave any minute. Just taking it one day at a time." Deb's voice returns to something approaching normal. "Same bullshit you hear from any Tom, Dick and Chad."

A moment passes.

When Faith speaks, it's so quiet we can barely hear. I say we because Astor is up and off the couch, now standing beside Lumen and I. Harrison is cradled in her arms, wearing a befuddled look on his face.

"I didn't plan any of this." Faith sighs. "Big surprise -- I'm not really big on plans. Probably why I got so much wreckage in my rear view."

Nothing. I imagine my sister standing in silent fury, at a loss for words unrelated to religion and/or bodily functions.

"Made a lot of changes. Still not great with the plans. But every now and then, I gotta take a look." A quiet chuckle, with little humor. "See what might be coming up behind."

"Oh. Well." Deb laughs in outright wonder at her own foolishness. "If you're done with the fucking automotive metaphors --"

"Jesus." Faith's not yelling, but she's not trying to be quiet. "Like I'm not already getting a full ration of shit for everything I do out here. You're really gonna bust my balls before you know a damn thing?"

"Wha--" Deb's cold anger is rapidly becoming a conflagration. "Shit from who? You haven't told me shit! You said you didn't tell anyone --"

"Yeah, well maybe when you're the one trying to keep a secret from the most powerful witch in the hemisphere you can have a fuckin' leg to stand on, alright?" A brief rustling. "You know what? I'm out of smokes. This is the perfect time to quit, because, why not? Screw it."

"Witch?" Deb sounds at least three kinds of confused.

Lumen looks over at me, incredulous, silently mouthing the word.

"Bad enough she's gotta go all Jewish mom, _oh honey I'm so happy you finally found someone._" Faith drops the sneer of mimicry, returning to her normal vocal register. "Right before the hour-long lecture on ethics in the workplace, and consent, and full disclosure and fuck you up the yin-yang."

"I trusted you." Deb is almost inaudible. Not on the verge of tears. More like so confused, she can't even decide to be angry. 

"What the hell?" Faith still sounds irritated, but more from being pestered with trivia. "You think I'm sleeping with your brother?"

"Fuck no!" Deb sounds shaken, taken aback.

"You think I want to?" 

"I don't know! Fucking shitballs!" Deb sputters momentarily. "This is --"

"Chill." A creak of a step, and more rustling. Another heartbeat. "Far as he's concerned, I swear -- you got nothing to worry about. All right?"

Deb says nothing.

Faith's voice is slightly muffled. "I swear."

"Nah." Deb still sounds shaky. "That's me."

"Yeah." A cynical laugh from Faith. "I'm a regular Girl Scout."

"And what the shit was that bullfuckery at the station?" Deb's working up another head of steam. "Lenore Ogilvie? Who the fuck came up with that one? Because whoever you do your investigations for, their brain needs an enema --"

"Yo." Faith's tone is flat and final. "I'm starving."

  


* * *

  


When the door opens again, the rest of us are adroitly and adeptly looking busy. By the scowl on Deb's face, it's wasted effort. Apart from the politeness factor of trying to spare my sister further embarrassment.

"So I was going to introduce you." Deb reaches around me, retrieving a beer from the counter. "But it looks like I'm behind the curve."

"Aunt Deb? This is Faith." Astor stands up straight, posture more formal, her expression an earnest hope for peace. "She's really cool."

"Yeah." The single syllable leaves my sister's lips at a snail's pace, even as her brain appears to be processing everything faster than real time. "Yeah. She's something."

Astor gives me a Look. Fully deserving of capitalization, it clearly says something along the lines of _I'm taking Harrison in the other room so you guys can talk about grownup stuff but if you don't give me a kid-friendly version later on I can pretty much guarantee you there will be hell to pay._ Words to that effect.

"Dinner's in fifteen minutes," I warn as they disappear down the hall. The cast iron is ready. When it comes to steak, it's all about timing and temperature.

"So." Deb takes a swig from her beer, looking back and forth between Lumen and myself. "Want to tell me how you guys hooked up?"

"Don't look at me." Lumen shakes her head, giving Faith an apologetic shrug. "We just met."

I watch lymphatic fluid ooze from the sizzling slabs in the pan. Too many of my worlds are more than ever beginning to intersect. At this point, a collision seems imminent. It may be time to start contemplating an exit strategy. I've always known it might come to this. 

But even without my son to consider, it's the thought of Astor that truly gives me pause. No matter how many mentors and mother figures have come into her life since she was the recipient of this strange and terrible power. Because what the Dark Passenger sees in her -- what it delights in beyond all measure -- is nothing less than its own recognition of the Slayer as a kindred primal spirit. And that recognition evokes a profound and chilling dread from the small but growing humanity buried deep within my shriveled and riven soul.

I flip the steaks, on automatic. When I look up, all three women are staring at me.

I try not to sound confused. "What?"

Deb snorts. "Told you."

  


* * *

  


As expected with the personalities involved, the trend of the evening is for the distaff to be dissing Dexter. Nothing truly nasty, though I have no idea how I might react if things did spiral out of control. I can only hope that all of us will be spared a recreation of Thanksgiving with the Mitchells.

Things go more smoothly, at least for me, when Astor rejoins our party. Not only is she wearing clean clothes, they're actually not all black. The tie-dyed shirt is anachronistic, but almost festive. I have to admit to a twinge of concern when she installs Harrison in his chair and starts setting the table.

"Better watch it," Faith says, pointing with her beer bottle. "Someone's gunning for a new car."

Astor scoffs and shakes her head. "I don't even want to drive."

"Youth of today? _Loco en cabeza._" Faith looks over at Lumen with a bemused expression. "What's up with that?"

"I'm not going to insist on you having a job." I reconsider. "Not until you're at least seventeen."

Astor opens and shuts her mouth, now more wary. Perhaps mindful.

"But it would help if you got your license." I make it sound like an opportunity as I shave off thin slices of steak for Harrison, who appears utterly captivated by the process. "You could take your brother all kinds of places while I'm at work."

Astor giggles as she pulls up a chair. To Faith's credit, her smirk is as brief as it is silent.

"You might want to rethink those words," Lumen suggests. She looks like she's fighting a smile. "Something tells me a strip club would be the least of your worries."

"You don't know the half of it." But Faith's answering grin is less lewd than expected. More the ruefulness of a wisdom painfully earned.

Dinner is less awkward than predicted, mostly because Harrison serves as an even better than usual distraction. Something about a cute kid just naturally keeps the room from getting too tense. I do have to give Astor a brief eyebrow at one point when I catch her twirling her steak knife in her fingers, as adroit as the next genetically gifted supernatural assassin. Luckily Deb is choosing that moment to anxiously watch over Faith, seemingly out of trepidation over what might emerge from her partner's mouth.

"He's gonna be up for a while," Lumen observes. She and I are watching Harrison's enthusiastic response to his sister's pat-a-cake routine. Deb seems equally engrossed, but I keep glimpsing her little sidelong glances whenever she thinks we're not looking.

"Astor?" I think I sound natural. "What do you think about having Cody visit next week?"

Astor shrugs, noncommittal. Actually, I read it as dubious. Probably over the notion of having to conceal her abilities after freely exercising them for so long. I have to say I'm not without sympathy.

"We could all go out on the boat," I offer. "I'm sure Harrison wouldn't mind seeing his big brother again."

"Be good for all of you." Faith nods from the couch, ignoring Deb's fidgeting. "Get a little more testosterone around here."

"Let me guess," Deb interjects, full of knowing sarcasm. "You grew up with three brothers."

"Cousins." Faith leans back with both arms outstretched, looking smug.

Deb snorts and wrinkles her nose. "So you were the tomboy queen? Biggest balls on the block?"

"Hardly," Faith scoffs. "But it was like a vaccine."

"Huh?" Deb's frown is less skeptical and more puzzled as she stretches out on the couch with her feet in Faith's lap. The Slayer's arm is casually draped across my sister's knees, loosely enveloping but not overtly possessive. From the corner of my vision I can see Astor looking over at them. Harrison laughs and tugs at her fingers as Lumen hovers at my side, as close as can be without touching.

"Seriously -- walk me through it." Deb smirks. "Cause I'm not seeing it."

"Spend enough time dealing with boys?" Faith sounds utterly confident and self-assured. "You're not gonna have much time for mean girls and eating disorders."

"Ah." Deb chuckles, taking this in. "So it's like boot camp?"

"Basically." Faith glances over, apparently to see how I'm taking this public display of affection. I've seen worse, and not just from Masuka. What's most puzzling by far is how unusually at ease Deb seems. Particularly given their earlier friction.

"No games. No girly crap." Deb heaves a sigh of regret. "Nice and simple, right?"

"Yeah." Faith chuckles with a wry look of acceptance. "Course, that might be why I suck at relationships."

A surprised bark of laughter comes from Deb. Then my sister's humor quickly fades, before a dawning and reluctant self-awareness.

"You guys will be fine." Lumen sounds perfectly at ease as she and I exchange the briefest of looks. It's a moment of mutual acknowledgement, a respect and recognition of the sum total of one another in all our ridiculous humanity. The pain in her eyes is enough to bring back all of my own. But the love I see there is worth every ounce of that suffering, and so much more.

"So." I clear my throat, abruptly self-conscious. "Who's got room for --"

The look on Lumen's face brings me to a halt. I follow her gaze to the couch, a knot of anticipation expanding in my stomach.

Deb sits upright, ignoring Faith's look of bewilderment. Staring directly at Lumen.

At the two of us, standing side by side.

"Holy shit." Deb's whisper is an icicle of realization. "You're number thirtee--"

The living room window explodes.

An amber smear fills the air, blooming into orange.

A wall of heat springs to life before me. Blocking my path.

Again the sound of shattering glass. This time, from the bedroom.

I hear the voices of the women. Frantically calling my name.

As fire rises all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the irony of the reveal being in this chapter is not lost on me. Though as usual I didn't notice right away.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire.
> 
> Flight.
> 
> _Fight!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a bit of editing, I'm pretty sure this story will have a total of 20 chapters. Hope you're enjoying it as much as I am, and to see you there at the finish line.

Home.

For some, it's a place. For others a person, or even just an idea. Anything that makes you feel secure enough to let down your guard. No matter how crazy or chaotic the outside world. Home is what you count on to be there when it matters.

In a matter of seconds, a home can become a prison.

Or a grave.

For as long as I can remember, I've been fenced in. The traumas of the past, and the resulting numbness, had shielded me from the weakness and vagaries of emotion. Only over these past few years had the cracks grown visible. Enough for me to see, if nobody else.

Now the moment is frozen. And me along with it, as my mind splits in two. For half the beat of a heart, I'm torn down the middle. Unable to act. To move.

To decide.

The sound of my name wrenches me out of my trance.

"Get Harrison!" I yell. I'm running for the kitchen sink, falling to my knees and yanking the cupboard doors wide. The fire extinguisher is there as always. I yank off the activation tab, calculating where to best deploy my limited resources.

"See the piggies scamper!" A high-pitched feminine giggle rises from outside the shattered window. "Roast them on a spit! Toast their marrow on a fork --"

Most of the flames are behind us. Bad for my apartment, good for us. I outline an arc with the extinguisher that covers the floor all around my front door.

Faith grabs my desk and shoves it into a swath of flame, giving us a temporary bridge to the patch of carpet I've cleared away. She's helping Lumen up onto it as Astor emerges from the back, Harrison clutched tight to her chest.

"Stay behind me!" Faith snaps. "I got the door!"

Deb doesn't resist as the Slayer shoves her up on the desk with Lumen. My son is silent as he clings to his big sister, apparently in awe of the surrounding inferno.

"Dexter!" Astor is coughing, her panic on the verge of losing control. "What are you doing --"

"Go!" I yell. I don't look to see if they obey. I turn and run to the far wall of my living room, already locked on my target.

The butt of the empty extinguisher meets the hollow spot on the wall. Plaster caves under the impact and falls away as I repeat the hammering motion, in an ever-widening circle.

My peripheral vision tells me Faith is still herding the others toward the door while shielding them against attacks from the window. Little grunts of effort emerge from my throat with every blow. I ignore the rising chorus of protest, the drops of sweat forming in the corners of my eyes.

Heat licks at my lashes, the hairs on my knuckles and neck turn crispy and all three women are yelling my name as the final blow is struck. I reach in and pull the black travel satchel from the hollow part of the wall. My yearly updated 'getaway bag', containing a small but fat wad of cash, a bag of diamonds and a trio of passports. An idea now ten years old, it was always meant to be an insurance policy. An escape hatch for when everything went wrong.

And if discovered, it could be my death warrant.

Astor is suddenly directly behind me, shouting in my ear. I realize this right as she outright grabs me with all of her strength and I might as well be a doll for the ease with which she grips me by the neck and waistband and hurls me stumbling across a river of flame, straight into an even more powerful grasp. Faith looks like she'd be slapping me silly if she didn't have higher priorities.

Lumen is holding Harrison now, and Deb looks like she's about to start yelling at me. That's when Astor lands beside us with a solid thud, having made the leap across the distance she just threw me over.

"Jesus!" Deb's astonishment quickly turns to anger as Astor stands straight and tall, a look of danger in her eye. "Forget Dexter, what in the fuck --"

Faith cuts her off with a single word. "Move."

Astor strides forward to stand side by side with the older Slayer. The two of them face off against my front door, and I hear Faith chuckle.

"You ready?"

Astor gives a brave and dismissive snort. "Bring it."

Under the combined force of their full on front kick, the door doesn't just fly from its hinges. It's practically launched into orbit. Harrison starts to cry in Lumen's arms as Faith slips outside, disappearing in the flickering shadows.

My head is spinning as the rest of us emerge from the apartment. A fire alarm has sprung to life -- somewhat belatedly, I think, adjusting the shoulder strap on my bag.

"Dexter, what the fuck?" Deb's anger is subsumed in a whisper as she holds onto my free hand, her grip tight enough to cause real pain. I stumble down the length of the balcony, trying to avoid falling downstairs. 

Astor keeps glancing from Harrison in Lumen's arms to the bag hanging from my shoulder. In contrast, the look on Lumen's face tells me she has a pretty good idea what's inside. I try not to think about it as we approach the bottom of the staircase.

My SUV is a scant twenty feet away under a pale sodium glare. The way I'm parked, it's a straight shot to the exit.

I take a half step back.

Then nearly fall the rest of the way. Pushing Deb and Lumen behind me, as steel cleaves the air in front.

"Stand still, my friend." The grin exposing his new set of teeth makes Luis look almost as jolly as the day I gave him and his cleaning crew that set of boutique liquor store gift certificates. Firelight glints from the blade as he expertly twirls a machete in one hand. "It's party time..."

"Get to the car!" I shout, as I force the keys into Deb's hand. Her fingers are shaking, her eyes locked on his protruding fangs, the prominent brow ridges that overhang his glaring yellow eyes.

From the direction of the pool comes a deafening roar, followed by a clang of metal. It sounds as though Faith is making her presence known.

"Come on, Dex! It'll be fun!" Luis takes a sidewise step, following my every move. "We gonna have cake, and presents. And then? We gonna slice open the _pendejo_ \--"

"Watch him." Astor's command to Lumen is just that, and despite her youth she comes across every inch like a leader born. She turns her glare upon Deb, deliberately including her aunt in the order. "And don't let him go."

I ease the satchel from my shoulder. As the others prepare to make a break for it, I slip the bag over Lumen's.

She's already opened her mouth to object when I give her a shove. The three of them snap into motion, heading for the car at a dead run.

Luis growls and turns to follow. I get his attention with the extensible police baton I pulled from the satchel before giving it to Lumen. The only weapon in there, but a good one.

"Motherfucker!" Luis snarls and clutches the back of his skull, whirling to face me. "Think you can buy me off with a drink? You think you're white now? I'll drain every fucking drop from your _bolillo_ ass!"

I hold the baton at my side, my right foot steady behind. His slavering grin widens.

"But not before I show that stuck-up sister of yours a fine old time." His eyes are practically glazing over, his words dripping with cruelty. "Not before you get to hear each other beg me to make it _stop_ \--"

The floodlights blur in my vision. I only half-see him lunge.

I swivel at the waist, putting my entire torso into the swing as I drop to one knee. The baton meets his with a sickly wet crunch. Luis tumbles to the pavement shrieking in agony, clutching at the ruined mess of blood and bone protruding from his pant leg.

"My champion!" The agonized cry from the shadows is the same woman that was giggling earlier about piggies. "I'd only just made him!"

"Damn it, Dru!" It's Rita -- no. Darla. The false Rita, expressing her exasperation with an animal snarl. "Pull yourself together -- wait! You little fool, that's what she --"

The words cut off in a grunt of impact.

An abrupt scuffle follows, that quickly reaches a crescendo. From the darkness comes a whirlwind of motion, resolving itself into Faith squaring off in battle against two figures: One male, one female. The latter is Drusilla, who I've met once before but know mostly by reputation. I recognize the man as another member of Luis's crew. I don't remember his name.

"Give me your entrails!" Drusilla sounds frantic, her eyes wild with insanity. Elaborately painted fingernails cleave the air like razors. "All the futures I shall foretell --"

"Dexter, look out!"

The warning cry from Astor doesn't stop my escape from being almost too late. I feel something not quite snag the cuff of my trousers as I move, hear Luis howl with rage.

The world exploding in pain is my clue that I've run into the SUV. Slammed into it at nearly full speed, hard enough to rattle my brain inside my skull.

_Oh, well done_, I think. Or think I think.

My life is on hold again. Not even two seconds, but it's more than enough to send my panic into the stratosphere. It's not that I can't decide. This time, I know perfectly well what I need to do.

And I'm paralyzed.

Then a gasp of air sends a shot of oxygen to my starving cerebral tissues. My arms and legs wrench and spasm, sputtering into pained wakefulness. I hear Deb cry out.

But she's not calling my name.

As my vision clears, I realize Astor has thrown herself into the fray. She stands tall at Faith's side, seemingly only half the size of her mentor, as the two of them drive back the vampires with a barrage of fisticuffs and vicious kicks aimed precisely to do the most hurt. Deb's pulled her service weapon, placing herself between Lumen and the rest of us, wearing an increasingly confused expression. Lumen fumbles with the key fob, balancing Harrison on one hip.

The frustrated male looks like he's ready to go all out and damn the consequences. Astor makes the decision for him by slipping forward, under his grasp and up inside his personal space to deliver the _coup de grace_ with her stake. Deb chokes on her own scream as the man crumbles into dust and away.

"Oh, you little fucking _puta_!" Luis drags himself up on his good leg. Murder seethes across his twisted face as he hops forward, looking oddly comical. "No! I start with _you_ \--"

"Yo, Dexter!" Faith pulls something from her pocket and flings it up over his head.

I smile as my fingers close around her offering. Luis ignores me, intent upon Astor.

Big mistake.

I loop the wire around his neck in one swift gesture. Plant my foot in the small of his back and shove him forward, grip both handles and pull with all my might. Hair thin, razor sharp, the garrotte snaps through the thick column of flesh, clean as a whistle. Like the whistling from his windpipe as his head topples and rolls away, accompanied by another scream from Deb -- the fire alarms going off all over the complex have nothing on my sister! -- which ends much the same as the first when both corpse and head likewise disincorporate and disappear on the evening breeze.

A mocking laugh echoes throughout the complex. Lumen finally gets the door open and shoves Deb into the back seat, handing over a sniffling Harrison before my sister realizes what's happened.

Just in time.

Darla stares at me from across the asphalt. The hatred blazing from her eyes is the purest emotion I've seen since I killed my own brother. Part of me still wants to do some kind of genetic testing. If only I can prove it's not really Rita. Maybe I can -- what?

Get over it?

Do what needs to be done?

"You're a persistent boy." Darla's anger is plain as day for all her calm, the curious amusement animating her delicate features. "Like a tick."

Between the floodlights and fire she's well illuminated; her light summer dress near transparent, showing off her figure to the fullest. Despite the not quite subtle eroticism, it's almost like something Rita might have worn. Coincidence or not, I don't like it. She holds Drusilla at bay with one hand, not even looking at her. The other vampire struggles feebly against her grip, but the display strikes me as more chihuahua than pit bull.

"But you're in my dreams." Darla's voice sharpens. "And I blame you."

"That's not my problem." My reply is automatic. Astor watches with unblinking eyes, standing between the vampires and the SUV. I imagine Lumen inside, trying to distract Deb.

"Oh, it very much is. In fact --" Darla sneers and bats away Drusilla's hand. She narrows her eyes, wholly fixated upon me as her sister vampire flutters and coos over her. "It's unforgivable."

I see Faith tense, preparing to spring. I'm ready to move.

Then I hear a rising siren through the alarm. The unmistakable call of a fire truck.

My kill chest in the bedroom. My box of blood slides in the air conditioner. Just waiting for some well-meaning public servant to stumble across --

"You don't want to drag this out." And Darla smiles, nodding in perfect self-assurance. "But I certainly will."

When I blink the smoke from my eyes, she and Dru have vanished. Unfortunately without leaving behind twin piles of dust.

"Hate it when they do that." Faith surveys the empty parking lot with her hands on her hips and a disgruntled look on her face.

"I got your sister," she continues, as the fire truck pulls in. "You deal with the cops."

"My sister is cops." It's all I can think to say.

"Mouth like that?" Faith snorts, her sarcasm unmistakable. "Maybe you should let me do the talking."

"You're still a wanted fugitive," I say. From the sour look on her face, my reminder was as unwelcome as it was unnecessary.

"Go." I nod toward the car. "Take care of Deb."

  


* * *

  


The fire is quickly put down by trained professionals, but not before gutting a good chunk of the apartment. The second molotov cocktail in my bedroom could have been far worse. As it is, most of the damage is on the far wall with the door, well removed from the hidden cubbyhole where my kill chest resides. I manage to ascertain this much from the balcony with a quick look through the window before the chief warns me away. The air conditioner, too, remains untouched by fire and firefighter alike.

Lumen approaches, still carrying Harrison. The two of them look haggard, but nowhere near shell shocked. I notice the bag is missing from her shoulder.

"In the car." She states this unprompted, under her breath.

I look over at Deb, standing by the car. Apparently my sister has sufficiently recovered from her trauma to engage in a vigorous argument with her new partner about all sorts of things, from Astor and Faith 'going all Keanu on those bitches' to the vanishing act pulled by two different corpses in a row. And she keeps sending occasional glances over at me, her eyes shooting flaming dagger bullets with razor tips. Dipped in poison.

I can only imagine. Identifying Lumen as Number Thirteen was the jump off the cliff. Once Deb realized that my tenant and admitted girlfriend was the lone survivor of the Barrel Girls, the fact that I had helped murder the five men responsible was inevitable. Like the ground below. 

"If something happens to me." I take hold of Lumen's free hand. "I want you to split that with Deb and Astor."

Though her furrowed brow doesn't spell out a state of alarm, Lumen is definitely troubled. "Anything I need to know?"

"You should probably burn the passports." I chuck Harrison under the chin. "You okay, buddy?" 

Harrison responds with wide upturned eyes and opens his mouth.

"What's that, buddy?" I lean forward. "Were you gonna --"

A forceful sneeze covers my cheeks and forehead. Lumen's frown is a clear effort to suppress a smile as she pulls out a sanitary wipe.

I have nothing but things to think about while she's sponging my face clean. The greatest of which is that I'm being forced to choose. My secrets.

Or my family.

I feel the Dark Passenger recoil at the very notion. Or perhaps our chilling and mutual realization of which way my loyalties truly lie. But the truth is undeniable. For all my vaunted programming by Harry's Code -- my image of myself as a clockwork automaton -- when the chips were down, my back to the wall, I had been making decisions clearly not in keeping with my upbringing.

I realize, too, that Ghost Harry hasn't appeared or spoken to me since that night outside the demon bar. Even as I think that in a world with vampires, demons and forces of darkness, there surely must also be ghosts. And that perhaps mine has never been more than a figment of my own creation. A splinter of soul, given face and voice.

And what of my Passenger?

From this leaps forth an idea that I find even more stunning. Whatever the Passenger may be -- or not -- I am no more bound by its commands than those of my father. And in a world with vampires and demons and forces of darkness, the urge for blood that will always be part of me can be channeled into something far less dangerous.

Relatively speaking.

That's when I feel the knife in my chest. The pain of certain knowledge, as the truth of my chosen path is fully revealed. The only way to protect myself and my family.

I have to get in there. Remove the kill chest and blood slides. 

And destroy them.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of talk, a lot of drama, a reasonable amount of action, and a hopefully devastating cliffhanger.

I'm sitting in the rear of the SUV among my makeshift family, with the hatch propped open. We're watching the fire chief talking to my complex manager while all of us wait for the police. My neighbors, in contrast, have given up on aimlessly milling around and gone back inside, having been reassured to their satisfaction that the matter is being dealt with by the appropriate authorities.

A light haze hangs over the area, suspended in mist under the glare of halogen suns. I keep watching for an opportunity to slip back inside the apartment. So far, no such luck.

Otherwise, things are going surprisingly well. Our firefighters are skilled professionals. And while our vampire arsonists had decent aim, they failed to account for the generally fireproof nature of modern materials. Apart from a handful of books, most of my property remains intact. The crew have cleared out, leaving behind a mass of red tape to block off the gaping hole of my absent front door.

A dull vibration penetrates my awareness. It takes a moment to finagle the phone from my pocket without disturbing Harrison, wedged as he is between my leg and Lumen's back. The latter is stretched out on her side, using one arm for a pillow.

"Hey, Angel." At the edge of my vision, I spy Faith glancing over at me. "What's up?"

_"What's up with you!"_ Palpable joy streams through the poorly made connection. _"Dios mio! I'm so glad -- wait! Is everyone else o--"_

"Everyone's fine," I interject. I nod to Astor as I maneuver down and out of the car, calves tingling as my feet hit the pavement. "Deb's here. She's okay."

A heavy sigh of relief comes down the wire.

_"I caught the fire on the horn. My friend, I am on my way."_ Angel's boisterous demeanor turns serious, that legendary solidity coming to the fore. _"Anything you need -- just say the word."_

I gaze up at my smoking window, then over my shoulder at the SUV.

"Can you bend a little red tape?"

As I'm stuffing the phone back in my pocket I can hear Deb, already angry and rising fast. She falls silent as I trot over with an expectant look.

"What's going on?"

"It's okay." Lumen is sitting up again, holding a confused-looking Harrison. Her cheek is somewhat reddened from the rough carpet interior of the vehicle, but it's her abashed expression that gives me pause.

"I have been kind of monopolizing him," Lumen continues. "Here you go."

I realize she's addressing Deb. That in fact Lumen is right now handing over my son to a woman who has not once in her life exhibited a single maternal bone in her body. A woman who is right now hugging Harrison as if he were her own son, while glaring at Lumen over his shoulder. At least he's hugging back.

"Oh, shi--" Astor freezes in the middle of sitting up. "Shoot!"

"What's up?" I ask.

"My overnight bag was on the couch." Astor looks moderately crestfallen, which is better than consternation. "I mean -- it was only clothes."

A quiet snort comes from Faith. Deb narrows her eyes.

"Care to share?" My sister sounds like her usual cool self once more. It's at odds with her atypical appearance right now, caught in the act of an emotional demonstration. Especially involving family.

"Just thinking." Faith shrugs this off with a smile. "And before you ask, I was thinking: Don't let B hear you say that."

"Is that your ex?" Deb inquires. It doesn't sound too nasty, but Harrison has begun to squirm in her arms.

I move in before he can wriggle loose. Deb doesn't seem to notice.

"Is she always this possessive?" Faith shakes her head, waving me off. "Don't answer that. What else you got?"

"My debit card," Astor replies. "And --"

"First blood." Faith nods in approval as Astor holds up her very own hand-carved wooden stake.

"Congratulations," the Slayer continues, reaching out to offer a fist bump. "Here's to many more."

Deb looks slightly queasy.

"Astor." This from Lumen, now carefully watching my daughter. "Are you okay?"

"Hell, yeah! I mean --" Astor stops in her tracks, then laughs, more than a little shakey. Her eyes are bright and burning as she looks around in a circle at the grownups. "What is it with crazy brunettes who want to burn me alive?"

"And your brothers." A wash of shame colors my memory of that time. "Yeah, that...was my fault."

"The fuck," my sister breathes. Then slightly louder, as anger begins to overcome shock. "You mean Lilah? That gross English titty vampire?"

"Not literally." I realize too late this is probably not helpful.

Deb stares back, nonplussed. "Are you _trying_ to fuck with me?"

I see Faith preparing to intervene. Of course she means well, but it may be a lost cause. I'm on the verge of fighting my own battles when Astor chimes in.

"What about that picture of Mom?" Astor looks and sounds quite concerned about this possible loss. "The one on your desk? That's right by the window --"

"It's okay." I keep my voice low and soothing. "I've got backups of all her pictures since I met you guys."

"On the computer!" Her concern is escalating toward panic. "That's right by the window --"

"Hey." I capture her gaze, projecting certainty and reassurance. "It'll be fine."

Deb's chuckle is a sound utterly lacking in joy. Faith frowns, but the fuse is already lit.

"You." The single word from Deb is barely a whisper. She stares at Astor like some captive shark behind a sheet of too-thin glass. "What in the fuck are you?"

"That's not very nice." Faith sounds deceptively calm. But Astor raises her hand.

"It's okay." Astor returns Deb's hostility with simplicity. "I'm like her."

Deb follows Astor's nod. A slight twitch runs through her upper lip, as her gaze falls upon a stone-faced Faith.

"And you." Deb's looking angry again, staring off into space at no one in particular. That doesn't last long. "You --"

The others watch in frozen fascination as Deb turns and stares me down. Her hands grip her knees as she leans forward, breathing through her nose, her lips pressed tight together into a thin white line. I return her stare even as I note the presence and location of people all around the vehicle. None close enough to overhear. At the moment.

When she speaks, I can barely hear her myself. "You killed Jordan Chase."

She has no evidence. No rational reason to back this up. Only the vaguest of associations, and a born cop's instinct.

"Yes."

The word is out. My affirmation hangs in the air, uncontested.

Lumen swallows. Astor's eyes go very wide indeed.

"And the other four." A faint timbre of fear underlies the wonder in Deb's voice, as she continues to lay out her indictment. "Boyd. Dan. Cole, and Alex."

"Yes." I nod, perhaps unnecessarily.

"You --" She swallows again. From a hush as still as the grave, she begs me to convince her otherwise. "You killed them."

I don't hesitate for a moment. "Yes."

Her right hand twitches, fingers clutching at empty air. I can see the bulge of her service weapon, holstered inside her vest.

"No." Lumen levels a defiant stare at Deb. "We killed them."

Astor's eyes go wider still. Harrison burrows into my chest, trapped in my embrace. I realize I'm holding my breath.

"Yo." Faith's flat delivery cuts through the sudden chill. "If you're gonna give these guys a hard time? You need to start with me."

Deb turns to Faith, confusion rapidly becoming outraged disbelief. "You mean --"

"And I'm not talking dead bodies with extra teeth that turn to dust when they stop moving. Or fucking accidents," Faith continues, overriding Deb's attempt to interrupt her. "You want to know more? I'll own up any time. But don't spend too long thinking, 'cause I got other priorities."

One of Deb's eyebrows arches sky-high. "I could tell."

Faith rolls her own eyes, with equal amusement and disdain. "Fuck you." 

"Hope so."

Deb's reply is instantaneous, full of bravado and something else. Faith raises her own eyebrow. It's hard to tell in this dim light, but I could swear that my sister is blushing.

"Huh." Faith chuckles, with a conciliatory smile. "_Touche._"

Astor's hand over her mouth does nothing to hide her giggle. Thankfully, it's drowned out by the the rumble of a well-tuned engine that swells in our ears as a sleek and sporty late model pulls in right next to us. The burly man stepping out wears a look of grim determination. I almost don't recognize him without his trademark fedora.

"Angel --" I wave and clamber down from of the hatch. I'm in the middle of dusting off my trousers when I'm seized up in a crushing embrace. Entirely enveloped, with nearly as much force as my Slayer daughter can bring to bear.

"Oh, Dex." Angel draws back, his hands on my shoulders as he gets a good look at me. So much emotion on that face right now, across the entire spectrum. "I am so glad you're still with us."

"Me too." I manage to clap him on the shoulder without feeling too stiff. "Thanks for coming. Can you --"

"Just sit tight." He cracks his knuckles with a grin. "_Un momento._"

I don't watch as he lumbers over to the fire chief. They can't cut to the chase until each of them knows exactly where the other one stands. Can't have anyone stepping on someone's toes. While the higher-ups hash things out, I need to lay the rest of the groundwork for my infiltration.

"Was that Angel?" My sister's head pokes out of the hatch. Her expression is eager, almost hopeful. Like she's desperately looking for something familiar.

"He's a little busy," I interject. "Give him a minute."

"Lemme see." Faith shoves in next to Deb, craning her neck. "Huh. Chubby dude?"

"He is not -- that --" Deb flounders a moment, and glares.

Faith raises both hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn't have guessed he was your type."

"He's a friend." My sister gives Faith a not-hard punch in the arm. "Asshole."

"Gotcha." Faith pulls back in. Deb shakes her head, and follows.

When I peer inside a moment later, Faith is watching Astor watching a sleeping Harrison. Deb is watching her. For a moment, the stormy sea of conflict written on the gaunt lines of my sister's face makes my own problems seem like nothing at all.

I make a vague gesture, with my eyes on Lumen's. She rises without hesitation to exit the vehicle, following me until we're out of earshot.

"Where'd you put it?" I ask.

"Inside left wheel well," she replies without hesitation. "Behind the spare tire."

"Good." I nod. "I need you to keep an eye on that. And everything else, for a few minutes."

A frown creases her brow for only a second before she nods.

"And try to keep Astor distracted."

  


* * *

  


The apartment is thick with the odor of gasoline. The additional layer of invisible smoke that lingers in the air is enough to warrant wearing a scrap of torn T-shirt over my face. I finish tying the knot as I make my way past the wall of tape blocking off the doorway, risking a quick glance down below. I'm sure I'll soon be missed. For all that I do my best to avoid the spotlight, Dexter is in demand.

I head for the far wall, noting that the damage to my computer appears strictly cosmetic. Astor will be glad. Originally it was mere artifice to add a sense of versimilitude to my dating Rita; the dutiful cataloging and preservation of every photo, as painstaking as I would any piece of evidence. All part of my carefully constructed synthetic life. But over time, I found myself taking greater comfort in snatching a spare moment to look through those smiling faces. Whenever I wanted to remind myself there was more than ugliness and pain.

I don't think I could look at them now.

Not right now. Fresh on the heels of my dead wife's evil undead doppelganger calling me out. In public, no less.

I breathe through my nose, reaching up to pop the faceplate loose. My slidebox is about to go under my shirt when I remember that covering my tracks comes first. I realize my hands are sweating as I snap the plastic back in place.

"Dexter?"

Good call.

"Keep your voice down," I reply. Astor doesn't appear to have seen me closing the air conditioner. She definitely sees the wooden box in my hands. "And wait outside."

I don't sound the least bit mean. Still, I can see her adolescent rebellion beginning to rear its head. I lay out another card from my dwindling hand.

"Please."

Astor's eyes narrow, as if she can't believe I'd stoop this low. Then she laughs, more cynical than bitter. 

"Whatever." She shakes her head. "Don't be too long."

She peers out through the strands of tape, then slips through like a wraith before I can blink. I'm already discarding various possibilities, thinking on my feet at lightning speed. I've had to change plans before. In this case, my plan was to leave with the slides and come back for the chest. Instead, I'll have to put all my eggs in one basket.

Kill two birds with one stone.

Three minutes later, I'm exiting the apartment. Angel and the fire chief are nowhere to be seen. I loop around and approach the car from the opposite side, wiping a stray smudge of soot from my forehead when I spy my reflection in the window.

Astor gives a look of silent appraisal as I clamber into the back, but says nothing. Lumen offers a brief shrug of apology: _Best I could do._ Faith and Deb are huddled together in hushed discussion, which breaks off as they glance over.

Astor interrupts the silence. "Where are we going to stay?"

"Well --" I pat my trousers, making sure I have my wallet. "I still have a ton of points. We could get a room just about anywhere."

"Not good enough." Faith's expression is sober, her tone appropriately dark. "Vamps wouldn't need an invite."

"I can squeeze you guys in." Deb shakes her head, with a look that practically screams _I can't believe I'm going along with this literal bat shit story but it's probably the least insane thing about my life right now and let's hope to some horribly obscene Christ reference it doesn't get any worse because I seriously don't know if I can take it._

"You think they did it on purpose?" Astor's hand rests upon the brow of a still-sleeping Harrison, as she looks over at Faith. "Part of a plan?"

"Darla's not stupid." Faith shakes her head. "But she's kind of acting like it."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"Gettin' sloppy." Faith returns my gaze with placid equanimity. "Course, she's not the only one."

Unbidden, I remember other eyes. Dark and broken, driven beyond despair. Dana. Fighting to claw her way back from the brink.

Faith dismisses this tangent with a shrug.

"I'm just saying -- congratulations." And the Slayer's regard for me is a scalpel, the sharp pain of shared sympathy. "Cause you're really gettin' under her skin."

  


* * *

  


Thanks to Angel, it's only another twenty minutes before the fire chief decides he doesn't need me any more. We're on the road in less than ten, speeding away from the wreckage, headed for my sister's place. I'm not sure on logistics, but the sleeping arrangements alone are sure to cause friction. Bad enough already Astor called shotgun. Since this leaves Deb, Faith and Lumen to share the back seat, I'm trying not to expect the worst.

Harrison at least is easy to please, as long as I don't run out of gummy worms. I think it helps that he has his own seat. We've just stopped at the first red light since my place when Deb speaks.

"This girl." My sister clears her throat, overcomes her obvious shakiness. "The Coyote Killer."

Faith's contribution is a single snort. Deb shoots a glare at her.

"Did she --" Deb looks at me directly in the rear view mirror. "Did she kill all those people? Do you know?"

"There's no direct forensic evidence linking her to any of the murders." I return my gaze to the road as the light turns green and we shift into motion. To my right I sense Astor in the passenger seat, watching my every move.

"Any case would be circumstantial. At best you could say --" I pause while I complete the turn. "She's a person of interest."

Deb doesn't reply.

"And you notice LaGuerta didn't say anything about where she happened to find this convenient suspect." I try to sound objective. A true devil's advocate. "If someone fed it to her, I'd be curious to know why."

"What are you, the DA?" Deb's retort is quick, but lacking the true fire; a mere formality.

When I look again in the mirror, it's to find her glancing surreptitiously back and forth between the very different women that sit to either side of her. I can only imagine what partial truths Faith has told since they first met. I'm honestly not sure if I ever want to hear the story of their meeting. As for Lumen, the look on Deb's face is even more a study in contrasts: Repulsion and fascination, at maximum capacity, in equal measure. And perhaps a growing awareness of the healing power of revenge.

Faith stares out the window, chin in one hand. For her part, Lumen's gaze never rests; constantly roving one place to another, ever alert for potential danger.

"Maybe --" Deb coughs and clears her throat. "I understand that kind of thing a little better now. That kind of thinking."

I sense Astor turning around in her seat, looking directly at her aunt.

"I mean -- I'm still a cop." Deb sounds like she's struggling under some immense weight. "I just..."

"You want to make things better," Astor says. Her voice is low but positive, her tone encouraging. "Right?"

Deb snorts. She's even beginning to sound like Faith. Maybe she always did.

"I want to do the right thing." Deb sounds as stubborn and intransigent as ever. "Maybe that makes me a shitty cop. But hopefully it makes me... I don't know." An exasperated sigh. "Somebody my dad would have been proud of."

"Maybe --" Faith sighs. "Maybe your dad was a good guy. Not for me to say."

"Faith --" Deb shuts up with an almost inaudible squeak.

"Maybe I've been going at this all wrong." Faith sounds more at ease now. "Trying to please anyone besides me, I mean. Whatever I do -- I'm the one that's gotta live with it."

I hear Deb swallow as I pull up in front of her place. I'm expecting something far worse when I look, but Faith merely has her hand on my sister's thigh. More down by her knee than up near the private zone, in a relaxed and casual manner that fears no witness to its intimacy.

"You should be safe here." Faith nods as she opens the door, preparing to disembark. "Don't go anywhere."

"Excuse me what?" Deb interjects. "As in the fuck are _you_ going?"

"Before I go after those two?" Faith gets out, turns around and leans into the car. "I need to bring in the other one."

"I --"

"Kiss for luck?"

The overhead light is dim, but I think Lumen is blushing. Astor wears a look of expectation, and increasing hope.

"Fuck." My sister's growl is followed by a brief rustling, and the sound of something wet. I watch the red lights on the dashboard, and think of blood.

"Be good." Faith's command hangs in the breeze, her rapid steps breaking into a run before fading away.

I turn around with the most innocent expression I can summon. Deb glares back, daring me to say something worthy of the death penalty.

I spread my hands and shrug. "What?"

Deb looks as though she's holding back the most epic swear ever sworn. She shakes her head, in seeming wonderment.

"Who the hell were those people who firebombed your place?" Her demand is a hiss, her crooked gaze suffused with quiet and righteous fury. "Friends of Jordan Chase?"

"Not quite as friendly." I exit the car before her outrage can find root.

Everyone is carrying something, most of more than one thing, as we trudge up the stairs. I've managed to slip the getaway satchel inside my gym bag before attracting any attention. Still, my thoughts are occupied primarily by where best to stash it.

I'm so busy thinking these thoughts I don't see the figure lurking in the dark. Stepping out of the shadows and into the light as Astor turns, ready for anything.

"Can we talk?"

I hear my sister inhale a short, sharp breath.

"Sure." I extend a hand to Dana, turning to Deb with a smile. "You want to get the door?"

  


* * *

  


My sister's jaw works in silence. Finally, she manages actual speech. "That's --"

"This is Dana." I indicate our visitor. "She's a vampire slayer. But..."

"Dex, if you tell me it's complicated I will fuck you to death with your own dick."

"I -- wow." I can't find it in myself to be mad. Even Astor looks a little shocked. This time it's Lumen's turn to cover up a smile, with the hand that isn't holding up my son.

"That's not very nice." Dana's disapproving tone causes my sister to look over. I can see Deb taking a second impression, noting details of dress and demeanor. My crazy young Slayer is wearing her usual blue jeans, with her customary flannel shirt off to reveal a white tank top. The shirt itself is tied around her waist by the sleeves. Even her normally tangled long brown hair appears to have been given a cursory brushing. All in all, she looks surprisingly normal.

Until I look close to see the quiet misery shining deep within her bright and sunken eyes. I don't think she's slept since the last time I saw her. Maybe longer.

"We shouldn't be standing out here." Astor steps forward and gives Dana a hug, before anyone else can react. "Come on in."

Deb looks ready to shit a brick house. I think my sister may be a bad influence on me.

"I thought you said they needed _invitations_ \--"

"That's vampires," I interject, before Deb can work up a head of steam. "Not vampire slayers."

"It's okay, Aunt Deb." Astor projects nothing but confidence. "She's on our side."

  


* * *

  


Things remain awkward even after we make it safely through the front door. More so when Deb realizes that a pair of her underwear are sitting out in the open, atop a pile of towels on her living room coffee table. I think I hear her teeth grind as she sweeps the pile into her arms and disappears into the bedroom. I decide to give her a minute. As many as she needs.

"Have a seat." I indicate the couch to Dana. "And tell me what's wrong."

"Why is something wrong?" Dana slowly descends to a sitting position, of sorts. Her posture is stiff, her back ramrod-straight. 

"I'm not saying it's the only time you visit." I accept the glass of water from a silent Astor, who having made her offering, retreats to a polite distance. Dana guzzles the whole in one go, wiping her mouth with her forearm and handing back the glass with an absent stare.

"Suppose you're right." The barest smile raises one corner of her mouth.

Dimly, I realize Deb has come back into the room. I suppose I'd be rather reluctant to take my eyes off a murder suspect in my own home. Even one my brother had vouched for. And what good is my word now, as far as Deb is concerned?

"I came because..." Dana cradles one fist in an open hand, staring at nothing. "I feel like -- you understand."

Some sort of muffled choking sound comes from my sister. Dana doesn't seem to notice.

"Don't know why. But I trust my instincts." A quiet laugh. "If I think too much?"

She looks up at Deb and leans forward, as if confiding a secret.

"Don't know who's doing the thinking."

Deb stares back, a million wheels turning in her head. It's all over her face: _The Coyote Killer, in the flesh. A supernatural superpowered killing machine. Like my neice. And my new girlfriend. And she's a grade-A effervescent looney tune._ What could possibly go wrong?

I test the waters with a potentially embarrassing probe. "How'd you know where to find us?"

"Faith."

The confirmation gets Deb's attention. I make a down-low hand gesture, hoping she'll refrain from interrupting. Astor sits with Harrison at the far end of the couch, watching Dana with wary eyes like a prize stallion. Easily spooked, and potentially lethal.

"I don't like to focus too much. On any of them." Dana nods to herself, looking around the apartment without meeting anyone's gaze. "It hurts."

"You mean other Slayers?" I can hear myself capitalizing. It's catching.

"No." Dana rolls her eyes, but the smirk gives it away. "Leprechauns." 

"That never gets old." I smile, acknowledging her disarmament.

"It's too much -- everything. But I could feel --" She rocks back and forth for a moment. "Doubt."

"Doubt." I repeat the word, realizing my lack of comprehension.

"And if she can doubt herself?" Dana sits up straight again, her thesis proven. "Then so can I."

I feel the need to clarify. "You can doubt her?"

"Already doubt myself. Plenty," she adds, with another roll of the eyes. "Silly."

I look over at Lumen, occupying the sole chair in the room. My girlfriend appears to be the person least comfortable with the current situation. Sympathetic to a fault, certainly. But even more so cautious.

"And why did you come to me again?" I ask. "Because you doubt her? Or yourself?"

It's like a slap in the face. Dana's mouth twists as she looks down, shaking her head. Every vein and muscle in her arms stands out as one hand furiously clutches the other.

"It's okay." I reach out and take up her trembling hands in mine. Dana shakes her head again.

"I don't know if it is," she whispers. "Don't know if I am."

"Little brother?" Deb's gaze is zeroed in on her new houseguest. "Thought you said she was safe."

"Never." Dana laughs and shrugs, with a slight air of apology. She quickly returns to sobriety. "But he's right."

"About what?" I prompt, as gentle as I'm able.

"I doubt --" Dana takes an enormous breath, then lets it out in a gust of utter defeat. "Myself."

I watch her very closely. "Is it because of the discrepancies I saw?"

Dana looks puzzled, before her eyes narrow in suspicion. "Explain."

"In my blood spatter reports," I clarify. "The first time we saw each other. Is it because of the differences? Between those and the rest of the killings?"

"I -- I don't know." Dana's rising frustration gives way to fresh confusion. "You're the expert."

I can't help a smile at this last. She sounds so much like a petulant teen, it's not funny. Or rather, it is. Even to me.

"I've always been careful." Dana laughs, a self-deprecating bark devoid of any humor. "Since the beginning, _because_ \-- of the beginning."

"Mistakes were made." I nod. "You weren't ready to be strong."

"But I don't know." Dana spreads her own hands, naked and open, surrendering to merciful judgment. "And they know that. They -- they _use_ it."

"You mean Darla and Drusilla?" I hazard a guess that isn't much of one. Then a further leap, less logical in nature. "You think they're gaslighting you?"

Dana looks stumped before her frown clears.

"Yes. In fact --" She stumbles to a halt, momentarily overwhelmed; her voice reduced to a choked-off whisper. "I hope and pray that they are."

"It makes sense." I nod, lost in thought, collating what data I can remember without my notes. What better cover for their own kills than to pin it all on an innocent victim?

I think of this girl's tragic origins. Already driven mad beyond hope, she'd been empowered by an immortal demonic force that had done its best to send her further over the edge. Now, mad as ever -- more or less -- while hoping to atone. And for what? For having tried to be the best Slayer she could be. Now she strove to do no harm. Or at least to not kill the wrong person. But if you can't trust your own memory...

I turn to see Astor, looking torn and still. Harrison sits in her lap, oblivious, toying with the strap on his overalls. Lumen is likewise silent, her eyes full of pain and understanding.

Deb gives me a dirty look. "What was that about safe?"

"You need evidence," I say. Even as I realize I've been thinking like a killer for too long. Time to think like a cop.

"Do you have any idea where they are?" I try to sound helpful. "Anything that could help us narrow it down?"

"Had a list." Dana produces a crumpled piece of paper and frowns. "That's not it."

"You mean possible hideout locations?" Deb looks ready to continue, then shakes her head. "You realize this is some trillion percent grade A balls-out wackadoodle, right?"

"That too," Dana agrees. Her slightly more cheerful smile having taken Deb aback, she moves on. "Two spots left. You do one --"

"I'll do the other," I finish, and frown. "I mean -- you know."

"I know." Her smile vanishes as she grips my shoulder. "Be careful."

"Whoa, whoa --" Deb's already in fifth gear. I can see the momentum building into an explosion of outrage about her newly discovered murderer of a brother deciding to play the white knight for yet another young woman. A supernaturally strong, mentally unstable young woman that said brother is surrogate dad to. As well as trying to help her get enough of a grip on reality to determine whether her own murders might have crossed some moral boundary. 

"You're not going anywhere! You incredible fuck-knuckled --" Deb levels one shaking finger at me, spluttering near to helpless. Her plaintive cry splits the heavens. "Am I the _only_ chick here who isn't a fucking superhero?"

Lumen raises her hand with a grimace. "Join the club." 

Deb looks over at Lumen, in sheer disbelief. "You're kidding."

"Want to arm wrestle?" Lumen shrugs. "You'll probably win."

Deb shakes her head, processing this latest offense before turning to glare at me again.

"So what's going on, little brother?"

I think, then blink. "Come again?"

"How come you get to join the superpowered estrogen crew?" Deb folds both arms over her chest, one eyebrow rising significantly skyward. "Got some kind of honorary pussy?"

I blink again. "Language." I can't think of anything else.

"Oh, excuse me." Deb's calm would be deceptive if it actually deceived anyone. She's gearing up for a fresh assault when Dana intervenes.

"He's a friend." Dana puts extra emphasis on the final word. "Asshole." 

I realize she's echoing Deb's words to Faith, in precisely the same tone. From the look on her face, my sister is also realizing it. Even as she fully accepts the knowledge in her heart that I helped murder five men. Sadistic and unrepentant criminal scum, to be sure. But she's clearly seeing dear brother Dexter in a whole new light.

"This is crazy fu--" Deb lets out a nervous laugh and chews on her lower lip. "Fudgesicles."

"Here's your address." Dana grabs a pen from the coffee table, scribbling on her blank piece of paper. She holds it up, tears it in half. "And here's mine."

"Meet back here in an hour," I instruct her. "And if one of us doesn't show? We come looking."

Dana nods, fierce and ready. I can sense she's already itching to run as we stand up. It must be nice having all that energy. If not for the side effects.

"See you soon." I don't offer a hug, knowing her past. At least her own. Let alone any one of the thousands she shares with her fellow Slayers, past and present.

Dana nods. "Count on it."

Deb's still shaking her head as the door shuts. I don't wait for her.

"You still have that letter opener?" I'm already moving toward the desk.

Deb's brow furrows like a caterpillar. "From that Secret Santa?"

"That's the one." I hold up my prize: Ten inches of smooth, hand-carved wood. "Could be thicker, but -- better than nothing."

"That's what she said -- shit." Deb rolls her eyes before bowing her head, cradling her face in her hands. "I blame Vince. I really do."

I leave her like that as I head to the bathroom. When nature comes around, it's everyone's duty to answer the call.

I don't bother looking at my reflection in the mirror. I do my business and wash my hands, my mind clear as a desert sky. Only then do I let my gaze rise up to find a perfectly ordinary gentleman. Nothing about my appearance suggests anything that matters.

Nothing that might be true.

From the living room I hear a knock. I'm tensing up as the door opens, before realizing Deb wouldn't do that without looking.

"Speak of the devil. Or, Little Nicky." Even Deb's weary disdain is half-hearted at best. "What can I do for you, Vince?"

"Hey, Deb." Vince sounds muffled but contrite. "I just wanted to say, in person -- I really am sorry. That -- um, can I continue?"

A faint snort.

"I'll take that as a yes." Vince hurries on before she can object. "That was totally inappropriate on my part. And I give you my word that from now on, the only thing you have to deal with, on or off the clock, is my sick sense of humor. Deal?"

"Deal." The pause isn't a long one; for her part, Deb sounds more than sufficiently mollified. "Apology accepted, but -- how come you decided to say it now?"

Vince lowers his voice, the lewd chuckle still apparent. "Because I just broke my celibacy streak."

"I should have guessed." Deb rolls her eyes in my head, and probably out there. "Did she give you a pity discount? Or was it the family rate?"

"Seriously. I just met the coolest chick at the club. And she's got a friend! You'll really like her." Vince sounds overjoyed, wanting to share the good news. "Can we come in?"

"Yeah, sure. Whatev--"

Everything stops.

Slows to a crawl, in my head. Even as time inexorably moves forward.

I'm fumbling with the bathroom doorknob. Lunging into the living room. Knowing already that it's too late. Seeing Astor rise from the couch, mouth open wide and that horror is nothing compared to the look on my sister's face at the sight of the blonde woman sweeping majestically into the room behind the starry-eyed brunette who seems to have come straight out of Victorian England central casting and --

Oh yes. That look is quite clear. And it screams:

_HOLY_

_SHIT_

_DEAD WIFE WALKING_

Darla's eyes sparkle with mischief as she comes to a halt, surveying the roomful of frozen mortal prey.

"Dexter! How thoughtful."

The beauty of her face ripples and flows. Distorting and shifting.

Into a mask of evil.

"I hope you brought enough for everyone."

From the couch, Harrison raises both arms in supplication.

_"Mama..."_


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villainous banter. Hostages taken. A frantic plan. And the biggest cliffhanger yet.
> 
> If you have not yet seen Angel 5x11, "Damage", I highly recommend it before reading further.

"Harrison."

I don't raise my voice, but he turns to look. I reward him with an encouraging nod.

"Come to Daddy."

My son's head wobbles, rotating side to side as he stares back and forth between me and a vampire who looks like Rita. We won't get into how little time has elapsed since I started unironically using the word _vampire_ in casual conversation. But it's worth noting that the resemblance was far more striking a moment ago. Before the rough expansion of the bones in her face; the cruel fangs sprouting over a pouty lower lip, the iris of her eyes morphing blue to yellow. The overall impression is of a crude yet cunning predator, almost feline.

Oddly, my son doesn't seem to mind. He stares at me in wordless confusion, one chubby hand upraised and pointing at the monster wearing his mother's face.

"Oh, let him be. It's not even midnight." Darla beams, tilting her head with a smile that exposes more teeth. "We've got plenty of time."

Lumen is frozen on the couch to the left of Harrison as Astor sinks back down beside them. The pure loathing that emanates from my daughter the vampire Slayer as she zeroes in on her own natural prey is something to make the Dark Passenger swell with pride, as my heart literally skips a beat. Even under ideal conditions, violence is chaotic.

Unpredictable.

But Astor remains seated. Another moment ticks by without catastrophe.

As for Deb?

The minor scuffle earlier this evening outside my burning apartment -- where Astor and I made two grown men disappear upon death, one by decapitation -- has nothing on my sister's reaction right now. The experience of seeing and hearing what appears to be my deceased wife up and moving around would be reason enough to doubt one's own sanity. Add on top the seeming transformation of a woman who cried at Hallmark movies and rescued abused puppies into one of the snarky, sadistic nightmare creatures we had fought and killed less than four hours ago, and some kind of snapping point is all but guaranteed.

I'm not sure if this is it. Unlike Astor, Deb is still on her feet. The slowly growing comprehension on her face is woefully incomplete, but it's eclipsed by horror as her gaze moves from Darla to the more elaborately dressed woman by her side. The one with the raven hair, and the crazy eyes.

And a human lapdog.

"Hmph." Drusilla stares back. The frown that blooms on her rose-red lips appears born of surprise, and disappointment. "Another one lost."

"Let --" My sister's voice cracks.

The vampire's black-tipped fingernails gently scratch the bald pate of our co-worker Vince Masuka. He stands before us with half-shut eyes, his wire-rimmed spectacles ever so slightly fogged over, and the dreamy bliss written on his face is enough to melt the hardest heart. Or so it would appear.

"Let him go." And Deb seems to stand a little taller, to gain strength as her outraged sense of justice exceeds the fear of the unknown. Her gun is in its holster, ten feet away on the kitchen counter. Still, the look in my sister's eye isn't something I would trifle with. Then again, I know her.

Darla gives a disapproving click of her tongue.

"She's the one?" A tiny smile lifts the corner of that ripe and twisted mouth as she regards my sister with naked contempt. "Let's get something straight. If you'll pardon the obvious."

I can see more of the red draining from Deb's cheeks. It's being rapidly replaced with something approaching purple.

"Sleeping with a Slayer doesn't make you a Slayer. It just makes you..." Darla shakes her head, exuding pity for the deficient. "An object of charity."

"You cu--" Deb seems to choke on her own fury. Her slender hands form into fists, over and over, as she draws heavy breaths through an open mouth.

"I wouldn't." Darla doesn't look away, but it's obvious where her warning is aimed. From the micromovements in her muscles, Astor appears to consider and then discard the notion of an immediate counteroffense.

As for Lumen, her posture is only slightly less tense than a moment ago when our little unexpected company first walked in the door. I have to hope that one of our side can find an opening for the rest to take advantage. Or that the cavalry rides to our rescue, out of the blue.

"Now I'm thinking we should set a few ground rules. And to show you my good faith --" Darla offers a barely visible smirk. Deb's nostrils flare, but she doesn't take the bait.

"-- I'll put away the hardware." With a shake of her head, the vampire's face returns to -- I refuse to say _normal_. Human. The face, in fact, of the most human being I ever met.

"I prefer the other," I say. My voice is unusually calm even for me. "I'd rather see exactly what you are."

"Really?" Darla preens. "You wouldn't be the first man to say that."

"Hopefully?" I reply. "I'll be the last."

I feel Deb flinch at my words. Darla just smiles.

"I do so love hearing about myself. Do go on." Darla gazes at me fondly, as if ready to rub my feet after a hard day's work. "Tell me more about...just what it is you see."

"It offends me." I don't hesitate. "On some...primal level."

"Dru?" The slurred tones of Vince Masuka momentarily draw everyone's attention. Unblinking vampiric eyes burn defiant back at us with laser intensity, as Drusilla's nimble fingers toy with one of his earlobes.

"I know," Vince continues, insistent. "Matching tattoos on a first date _is_ crazy. And so are you, baby. And I love you for it."

A light gagging sound comes from Deb's open mouth.

"Hush, you." Drusilla's warped vision spits venom as she stares my sister down.

"Dru? Behave." Darla frowns without looking over. "I am not letting you ruin this for me. Not again."

A less than playful growl is her only response.

"Now it's obvious you aren't particularly fond of this young man." Darla's tone as she continues to address Deb is eminently reasonable; cheerful without being insipid. "And I would be more than happy to drain every last bit of his precious bodily fluid without spilling a single drop on your nice, clean carpet." 

Deb looks and sounds this much closer to snapping. Not that she's actually saying anything. More noises than actual words.

"So if you think you can live with the guilt? By all means." Darla smiles and spreads her hands open wide. "Start something."

Vince's head bobs to and fro as he hums a happy tune. He's obviously enjoying the feel of Dru's fingers stroking his scalp. I'm envisioning how fast she can remove it.

"Vince! Snap out of it!" Astor's desperate plea sounds like my daughter has approached her own breaking point. The entirety of her deceptively slim and fragile-looking form trembles with the strain of holding back. "They're going to kill us!"

I'm still watching both women. Or the demons in women's clothing. So I don't see whatever change comes over Vince.

But I do see their reaction. A snarl from Darla.

And a wail of misery from Dru.

In that moment of weakness, we're all on the move. Deb's going straight for the gun on the counter and it's Astor I've got my eye on as I lunge forward, grabbing up Harrison; watching with a surge of pride as my daughter pulls out a stake and dives headlong into battle, pushing back her foes with a flurry of strikes and feints. Her expression as she dodges and whirls is one of pure and murderous intent. But for all she seems to be fighting them as one, her focus never leaves the mocking, monstrous image of the woman who raised her. Who wiped away her tears.

Who loved her more than anything.

"Too slow, child!" Darla sneers as they face off. Astor grips her stake, taking quick little breaths through flaring nostrils, watching for an opening.

"Astor!" Deb's gun is in her hands, pointed slightly up. The look on her face is life or death. "Get out of the way --"

"I think not."

A startled cry directs our attention.

Drusilla holds Vince from behind like a struggling beetle, pinned to the spot in mid air. His glasses are gone, knocked off in the fight, his mouth and eyes wide with pain and uncomprehending terror.

"That's right." Drusilla nods, all too sure of herself. "And now, we'll all have tea and cake. Except for you," she concludes, glaring at Deb. "Took you for someone better."

"Don't do it." Deb's finger twitches on the trigger. Her muzzle trembles oh so slightly, leveled at the pale face of her target. "I'll shoot."

"That's..." Vince gasps in pain, trying to hold himself together. "What she said."

Deb's jaw falls open. "You pricktastic little --"

A shriek of frustration pierces everyone's ears, along with the roar from Deb's gun. Contained and amplified by four walls, it's enough to hurt. Of course, it hurts less than a bullet. Even if you're a vampire.

Drusilla clutches at her shoulder, blood leaking between her fingers. A stain begins to form and expand on her elaborate formal dress.

"Damn goth chicks!" From the floor, Vince kicks at Drusilla's ankles. "Always more trouble than they're worth --"

With a roar, Drusilla bends down and grabs Vince by his Hawaiian shirt. I'm holding Harrison tight to my chest and I wince as the vampire lifts, heaves and hurls my co-worker into the farthest wall. Hard enough to leave a dent, and put him out of the action, at least temporarily. But I hear a groan as he falls to the floor; see his chest still rise, his fingers twitch.

"Give me the boy." Darla pronounces this with deadly calm, ignoring the stream of blood that trickles down and over Rita's face. From across the room, Astor levels a glare of cold satisfaction.

"Or what?" I reply. "You'll do something you weren't going to before?"

Darla's eyes narrow, even as she allows herself a reluctant smile.

"You're a fascinating one. But I'll give you the bottom line: Save your friend now." Darla wipes blood from her face with a vicious gesture, flinging it to one side as she stares me down. "Because for him? There won't be a second chance."

Drusilla grabs Vince by the scruff of the neck, lifting him up. I hear a pained gasp, cut off by a hard squeeze.

"And if you do that? Then maybe -- just maybe." Darla pauses, letting me fill in the blank. "You can still save your son later on."

"I'm not handing my son over to you." I frown. "That would be stupid."

Darla regards me with a calculating air. Vince twitches in Drusilla's grasp. I see him violently shake his head, but I don't know what it means.

"As I thought." Darla nods, apparently satisfied. "You are full of surprises. And I will have you yet. But in the meantime..."

She turns to a petrified Lumen. My girlfriend has been frozen since things turned physical; standing trapped in the middle, with danger on every side.

"I'll just have to take everything that you love."

Without a word, Lumen stares at the image of my dead wife. I hear the labored hiss of breath in Vince's lungs, envisioning alveoli expand and collapse.

"You look like a woman of the world." Darla smiles. "Would you care to make an offer?"

"Take --" Lumen swallows. Like Deb, she looks utterly out of her league, and equally determined to make her actions count. "Take me."

"Oh, I intend to." Darla's practically rubbing her hands, salivating at the prospect. The look on her face is one of blind hunger, someone who doesn't even fully understand their own sudden desire. Only that she must have this.

I hear Dru murmuring under her breath. A heartfelt plea that slips under and through my defenses as if from my own dead mother; to which some part of me desperately tries to respond, even as I know the call isn't meant for my ears. But it takes me a second to see where her gaze is directed.

A second too long.

Pain blossoms in a burst of sunlight through my skull. One hand rises to shield myself and a small voice deep inside cries out at the feel of Harrison's tiny, squirming body slipping from my grasp. Deb's teeth are bared and she's sobbing from sheer rage, choking on her own tears as she once more raises her hand to bring her pistol down upon me.

"That's right," I hear Drusilla croon. "Show him you feel. Let it all out..."

Lumen screams. A feral sound of rage. 

For a minute, that's all I know.

  


* * *

  


Someone is dancing on my skull. It takes a handful of heartbeats, none of which are very enjoyable, to realize the true source of the pain.

"They took him." Astor is crying underneath her calm words. She kneels over me, holding a cool cloth to my head. "Both of them. They drove off in a car, they --"

"They hit the stop sign." 

I turn to see Deb kneeling beside us. Her gun lies on the floor, its grip stained with what looks like wet rust.

"What sign?" Thoughts are starting to come back to me. My sister's shame at having succumbed to a quick and dirty thrall is obvious. It can also wait.

"On the corner." Deb points to the northwest. Her eyes never leave mine. "Sideswiped it."

"They must have left something behind." Another thought strikes me. "Where's Vince?"

"Present." From the other couch a waving hand arises belonging to the man in question. His other arm is wrapped in a makeshift sling made from his own Hawaiian shirt. At least he's still wearing a wife beater. As Deb would say, thank someone for small favors.

Everyone twitches as a tinkling melody begins to chime. I watch as a chastened Vince fishes a cellphone from his pants.

"Midnight." He holds it up so we can see the display. "I think I was going to propose."

A humorless laugh from Deb fails to lighten the mood. Astor looks at Vince with something that can only be described as pity.

"So was it worth it?" Deb asks. She sounds less brutal than curious. It's a first.

"Um." Vince scratches the back of his neck, gazing at the tips of his shoes. "Now that I think about it? I'm pretty sure we didn't...actually --"

"I'll get a hold of Quinn." Deb shakes her head, pulling out her own phone. "He can take you home."

"So she just made you _think_ you had sex?" Astor looks even more worried. "Faith said she could do that."

"Do what? Have sex?" Vince looks abashed and hangs his head. "Sorry."

"I'll go check that sign." Astor rolls her eyes, turning and heading for the door with stake in hand.

"Vince." I make sure I have his attention. "Can you tell us anything that might help? Where you met her, where you went --"

"Dex, I don't know if any of that is even real." Vince shakes his head and stares at the floor before abruptly brightening. "Of course, you know what this means."

Deb bristles. "If this is about you dipping your wick --"

"Deb." I leave it at that. Physical contact seems like a bad idea right now.

"I was just gonna say --" Vince's depression is fading by the moment. "Even if it wasn't real? Those memories definitely are." 

"So you're saying you got all the pros of actual sex without any of the cons?" Deb looks impressed and appalled. "Guess you won't need your own private room at the free clinic."

Even as I feel myself champing at the bit to leap to my feet -- just run off into the night, to find Lumen and Harrison before something unspeakable and irrevocable can happen -- I realize my sister needs a shot of something normal. When it comes to cursing, banter with Vince has always been her primary source of inspiration.

"I'll say." Vince wears the look of a man who dodged a bullet. "Believe me, I had her pegged."

"Sure it wasn't the other way round?" Deb smirks, clearly hoping for a retort.

"You don't need a graduate degree in bar sluts to spot a born bunny boiler." Vince lets out a long and wistful sigh, massaging his injured arm. "I think I'm finally cured."

"That would require a needle much bigger than your dick." Deb shakes her head again and stalks off with cellphone in hand. I suspect Quinn is going to get an earful.

"I'm sorry." Vince does indeed appear more contrite than I've ever seen him. I reach over and squeeze his shoulder, not too tight, as I hear Deb's bedroom door click shut.

"You want to help?"

"Of course." Vince sits up straight, making full eye contact. "Just say the word."

"I need you to keep this off the books." I hold his gaze, emphasizing the utmost importance of the matter. "And I need you to not ask why."

"But -- what about your --" Vince stops and stares at nothing, cogitating with great fury before finally sinking back among the couch cushions. "Yeah, I wouldn't buy it either."

"Don't worry." I do all I can to project confidence. "I've got a plan."

"Oh, shit." Vince turns even more pale as he stares at the ceiling, holding one hand over his stomach.

I frown. "What's the matter?"

His frightened eyes meet mine. "That _is_ what she said."

  


* * *

  


Joey Quinn's natural suspicions are as high as ever when he finally arrives on the scene. I try to appear calm while impressing on him the urgency of the matter. It's a delicate balance, and one I'm finding difficult to maintain. His tanned and rugged good looks are currently twisted into a flat, irritated scowl. But in the end, the torch he carries for my sister proves even stronger than the thin blue line. I help buckle Vince into Quinn's passenger seat, and Astor hands over a chip of scraped-off paint in a baggie.

"He's a good guy." My sister's face is tinged with longing as she watches Quinn strap himself in. Also regret. "He won't talk."

I wonder when that became her definition.

"All I can tell you is that I'm sworn to secrecy." Vince lowers his voice to a level strictly confidential. "Under penalty of worse than death."

Quinn stares at him, then appears to visibly deflate. "She's gay, isn't she?"

"Don't ask, don't tell." Vince reaches over with his good hand and claps Quinn on the shoulder. "Besides, you never know. Maybe she's bi."

"Are you tryin' to fuckin' kill me?" Quinn turns the engine over, wearing a disgruntled look. "Cause that really would be a fate worse than death."

I try to ignore Deb's burning stare as the car pulls away from the curb.

"All right." I take the risk and make contact. So far, so good. "We're going back to my place."

"What the fuck for?" Deb's automatic reaction matches her words precisely. Her normally smooth, straight hair is showing more than a touch of tangle, her dark and sunken eyes beginning to resemble Dana's after three days without sleep. Or anyone's, I suppose.

"Go on. Tell me." Deb plants her feet and crosses her arms. "What's more important than your own kid?"

"She's my kid, too." I feel Astor perk up at my side; surprise and gladness, in equal measure.

"I understand not wanting to take any more on faith." I raise my hands. "Sorry."

"Why is everyone fucking tiptoeing around this shit?" Deb swells with anger from some fresh new source. "I didn't set out to be the poster child for baby dyke cops! It just fucking happened! And you have all this --"

"Aunt Deb!" Astor's stern interruption cuts off the tirade at the knees. "Nobody is tiptoeing anything! We just want --"

"To save Harrison," I agree. "And Lumen."

"And Lumen," Deb repeats dully. I don't allow her to gather momentum.

"From what Vince told me, there's a good chance they're going back to my place." I nod, as if it's all self-evident. "If they aren't there? We go to the address Dana gave us."

My frantic figuring is that the kill chest and box of blood slides are of equal priority as saving my son. I'm still having the debate at some level, even if the internal Rubicon has already been crossed. Obviously, my primary motivation is to cover my tracks. But with greater threats by far looming all around, it won't do much good to protect Harrison from the truth. Not if he winds up like his mother.

That, I will not abide.

"I'm not staying here." Astor is matter of fact, not in the least defiant. "I'm coming with you."

I'm about to argue, then reconsider.

"If we're not back in one hour? _Then_ you come find us. And not a minute before." I let the chips fall. "Are we clear?"

I need to make my own opportunity. And then, like Jordan Chase.

Take it.

  


* * *

  


The ride back is an exercise in tension you could cut with a knife. Deb watches my every move at the wheel, to the point where it makes me self-conscious. It's an interesting new sensation. I've been having a lot of those lately.

"If you get him killed?" She says this when we're stopped at a light. "I will fuck you up worse than you can fuck yourself."

"I don't think that's possible." I keep my eyes on the road. "But thanks." 

She regards me like she can't tell if I'm serious.

"Really," I politely insist. "I appreciate it."

Deb lets out one of those short, barking laughs.

"Did Rita know?" I can hear the change in her voice.

"About what?" I keep my own level. As far as Deb knows, any homicides of mine were after the tragic murder of my wife. An act of senseless proxy revenge; something that allowed me to vent my frustration at the injustice of the world.

Deb swallows. It sounds like she's on the verge of losing her dinner all over the floor of the SUV.

"Did you --"

"No." My foot grinds into the brake. Mashing it to the floor, as my hands grip the wheel. "Never."

"Dex?"

I turn to see Deb. Disturbed, shaken, but nonetheless intact.

"Go." She nods toward a green light.

Thankfully, the street behind is clear. I shift out, a little roughly.

The pale glow on the dashboard reads a quarter past one when I pull into my apartment complex. Looking around, I can see fresh rental signs in some of the windows. I think I'm bringing down property values.

Deb reaches inside her shirt as we get out of the car, before appearing to reconsider. At least she has her weapon handy. Mine are all upstairs, waiting for disposal under cover of darkness. 

She scans the parking lot like a hawk as we cross the asphalt. A part of her must expect there to be a stain where I separated the head of what used to be our handyman Luis from the rest of his body. I see her shy away from the spot; walk around while darting little glances, scratching the side of her head in order to block the view.

"Deb, it's okay." Even as I say it, I know it's a lie. That nothing will be okay ever again.

"I've got your back." I take a deep breath. "Like always."

Deb looks me up and down with no little skepticism. Finally, she nods.

The stairs feel loose beneath my feet. The shrill sound of palmetto bugs reaches my ears. A faint undercurrent of smoke tickles my nose, and I hold back a sneeze. 

The tape over the door is secure as it ever was. I let Deb through, then step inside and reattach it as best I can. It'll have to do. With any luck, we won't be here long.

"Open up the computer." I hand Deb a screwdriver, taken from the glove compartment. "And pull out the hard drive."

From the look she gives me, I'm expecting something long and profane. Instead, Deb rolls her eyes and walks over to the desk, intent upon disassembly.

I don't question her increasing resemblance to Astor. I turn and head for the bedroom, with not a moment to lose.

The kill chest has a combination lock. It also has more than enough room to hold the slide box. I'd like to disguise it further somehow, but I have little time and even less material at hand. My one gym bag that could hold something this big has been partially melted. And none of my luggage is deep enough.

I'll have to carry it out in plain sight. A purloined letter of confession.

I'm all but blind in the darkness. But I know every inch of this place like the veins in the back of my hand. The number of steps from the door. The right place to kneel, at the foot of the bed. Where to grab, and twist. And then pull --

It's already open.

The chest is gone.

I'm halfway standing when the darkness comes to life. Discharges a demon, that comes in fast.

A sharp stabbing sensation flares in the great muscle of my right thigh. My body has already reacted with a good, solid blow to the face that actually rocks my attacker's head back on her shoulders. She reels, staring at me in seeming shock.

Though I couldn't tell you which of us is more surprised.

"Dana?"

I blink. The world begins to melt, shimmering like Christmas tinsel.

I stumble for the door, out into the living room. My fingers clutch for something, anything, as I see Deb's prone body lying in a crumpled heap.

My muscles do not obey. My tongue is made of lead. My heart is full of ash.

I swivel, then topple. The smell of charred carpet strong in my nostrils; fine motor skills fleeing fast, along with everything else on the menu. I remember taking down my first demon. I hope bladder control isn't included.

_Dexter has fallen,_ I think. The very thought feels sluggish. I don't know why.

Dana swims in my sight. Eyes dark as she holds up a half-full syringe; blurring into the background, as her words follow me down into the void.

_"Brown makes you sleepy..."_


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of talk. A bit of action. And the heaviest drama yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been looking forward to this ever since I first came up with the basic story idea. Very pleased with the results, and I hope you are as well.
> 
> By a bit of coincidence, I posted this just before Father's Day. So I belatedly dedicate this chapter to my dad, who I lost earlier this year. And to all dads everywhere who love their kids, and/or whose kids love them.

Once upon a time, the entirety of my inner world was defined by the dead. From memories of long-dead mother to the imagined voice of father's fear, brother's grief. It didn't matter that I knew they weren't real. For the most part, it only made things easier. The countless conversations with different aspects of myself; taboo topics I could never discuss with anyone else. Every time I open up to someone, they only turn on me.

Or leave.

Now my world is blank and silent. I float. Adrift.

Unanchored.

From far off elsewhere comes a faint resounding clang. The song of metal on metal, it seems to throw off invisible sparks. But they just as quickly vanish from my ken, leaving only the void.

For some reason, it feels like I should be receiving a lecture of some kind. I'm not sure why. Until I start thinking of who might want to lecture me. Their identity and motivations remain ephemeral, but my sense of undefined anxiety is growing stronger with each passing tick of the great cosmic watch.

Even with my recent expansion of awareness into the realm of the supernatural, I've never given much thought to the possibility of a watchmaker. But my first priorities had always been strictly pragmatic, limited to whatever would help me keep my secrets and deal out death with impunity. The more I learned, the more I realized how much I didn't know. How much I would never know.

The scraping draws near. Of something being slowly dragged, back and forth.

On a sharpening stone.

A surge of adrenaline sends me into partial shock. I try to alter my breathing, only to realize why I'm getting so little oxygen. At the same time I nearly wrench my shoulder from its socket in a fit of spastic thrashing about.

With all my feeble heart and soul, I try to envision the few who truly matter to me. But their faces are misty and disconnected. Wavering in the aether; disappearing without a trace.

I collapse to the floor. It feels like padded carpet. Smells of charcoal and polyester, the lingering spirit of petroleum.

_Apartment._

_Arson._

_Astor._

Another flare of stress hormone floods my various systems. I breathe through my nose, the only way I can. Then I wiggle my fingers. They're the only part still free to move.

Astor was supposed to come for us in one hour. I have no idea what time it is.

The pounding in my chest threatens to explode outward, like some frantic newborn alien. I struggle, and swallow, and wonder if it's worth it to pray.

Vampires are real. One of them looks like Rita.

They have my son

(and Lumen)

A muffled grunt emerges from my covered mouth as I roll onto my right side. My eyes can't stop blinking, but the darkness stubbornly refuses to take shape. Both of my arms are joined behind my back, my legs rudely strapped together in the same fashion.

Slowly, I take the deepest breath I can muster. Straining all my muscles to the utmost. And the bottom drops out from inside at the sound that reaches my ears. A creaky, crinkling stretch and purr, as familiar to me as the sound of my own voice.

The sound of tightly wrapped plastic.

I desist from my increasingly pointless struggles before the twitch in my thigh turns into a cramp. Which reminds me of the hypodermic needle that entered that selfsame muscle some (hopefully short) time ago. And so on, and so forth.

And here we are.

I think I'm up to speed.

The grind and snap of a lighter heralds the appearance of fire. Shadows dance and flicker, high as mountains, before coalescing into something approaching stability.

I recognize the figure outlined in silhouette even before Dana raises the candle, illuminating her face. A solemn work, set in stone. I realize she's not looking at me.

With a sudden and violent effort, I manage to switch to my left side. I'm greeted by the sight of Astor lying on her stomach, likewise trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Multiple layers of plastic surround her from ankles to mouth, leaving her free like me to breathe through her nose. Her eyes dart wildly from side to side, seeking understanding.

I manage a grunt.

Astor looks over and sees me. Momentarily taken aback, her surprise is quickly followed by clearly trying not to laugh, even as her anger and confusion continue to escalate. She cranes her neck to what looks like a painful degree, looking all around for something. Or someone.

If Deb is dead, then nothing will bring her back. Nothing good, anyway.

And if she isn't?

It won't help anyone to panic.

I focus on breathing. Then on trying to sit up. That mostly goes well, except for the part where I forget how to breathe. When I'm finally situated, I'm leaning back against a wall, trying to keep my legs from folding in less than comfortable ways.

Astor isn't moving, but I can hear the soft whistle of air traversing her nasal cavity. Under normal circumstances, I think she'd be mortified. Then again, my life has never been exactly normal. 

The candle in Dana's hand throws long shadows beneath her eyes as she sits on the edge of my bed, regarding us with something more than sorrow. It takes a moment to recognize. But it's something with which I've become intimately familiar.

Betrayal.

A light whimper reminds me of those unaccounted for. I look over to find Deb, in the same condition of restraint as Astor and myself. Her groggy eyes are still attempting to focus, but her confusion is fast becoming a full on classic Deb freakout.

I remember staring down at her sleeping face. My brother urging me to plunge my blade inside her fragile, defenseless body. To take away her life.

I make the loudest grunt that I can, deep in my chest.

Deb stares over with bloodshot eyes before noticing who else is with me. It's enough to force an involuntary grunt of her own, more out of surprise. Astor manages a wordless reply of her own, sounding thoroughly frustrated.

I'm starting to wonder about Morse code when I hear the squeak of bedsprings. Dana towers overhead before kneeling, placing something on the floor. I realize the three of us are arranged in a rough semicircle, surrounding the object in question.

My eyes zero in on the latch to my kill chest. I'm less than surprised to find it forced open, the metal hinge snapped clean off. I probably should have built a dead man's switch.

I know. I've been told I have an inappropriate sense of humor.

Dana stares around the circle, her eyes finally stopping on me as she kneels down behind the chest. Even with the handicap of a literally captive audience, I have to give her full marks for showmanship. Her gaze never leaves mine as she slowly, painstakingly pulls back the lid to my chest.

I sense Deb and Astor straining at their bonds, with redoubled fear and curiosity alike. I wonder what will be first to come out, before realizing Dana already has one of the knives. The one in her hand. The one I decided was my new favorite after using it to behead my first vampire. The one she's been sharpening while waiting for us to awaken from our M-99 stupor.

I can try to estimate how long we've been out, based on a half-assed guess of how much we got shot up with. By unhappy coincidence, that's when I notice the contents of her other hand.

"Stuck a needle in me." Dana's voice is a whisper of rage as she holds up this damning bit of evidence. "Poisoned me."

I wonder if the drug is completely out of my system. I could swear I remember it being the other way around. Then Dana shakes her head, in that way I'm coming to understand when she realizes she's unconsciously echoing past utterances of her fellow Slayers. More than likely, the words we just heard from some girl now long dead.

"Gaslight." Dana chuckles and contemplates the empty syringe. "All these weird old words. But one of me -- she knew that."

She brings up the knife like she's scratching her ear, the blade flashing in the candlelight as she gives it a brief twirl. The idle gesture of a woman lost in thought.

"Tell people things that aren't true." Dana sends a quick look over at Astor, then Deb, before her smoldering gaze returns to me. "Make them think they're crazy."

This probably wouldn't be going any better if I could speak in my defense.

"See -- not even Darla can be two places at once. And she learned her lesson with Dru." A mocking smile momentarily lifts one corner of Dana's mouth. "Keeps her on a short leash."

Dana leans over the chest that sits between us.

"But you were everywhere she was." Her tone is clipped, dismissive and full of contempt. "And everywhere she wasn't."

I can think of a few reasons why this doesn't necessarily mean anything. And I'm not even entirely sure what I'm being accused of. Though I'm starting to get an inkling.

"And I knew," Dana continues, with merciless precision. "There was something underneath your bed. And you know what I did?"

_You pulled it out, opened it, and became very upset?_

"Nothing." Dana shakes her head, in awe at her own foolishness. "Respected your privacy. Trusted you. And --"

It's almost never a good thing when someone is so overwhelmed they lose the power of speech. From the look on Dana's face, this is reaching heretofore unknown levels of bad.

"And then I saw you." Dana laughs as she again looks over to Astor. "Not me. She -- her --" Another violent shake of the head, so hard I'm afraid she may do herself some sort of harm.

"You saw." Dana concludes with a pointed stare at her younger sister Slayer. "Dexter daddy, and his little wooden box. And you wondered."

Astor has the look of someone confronted with a nest full of bees and no clear escape route. Dana reaches into the chest, presenting the slide box for Astor's wary appraisal before setting it to one side.

"And I didn't want to. But I've seen -- too much." Dana's voice is momentarily gentle. "And I couldn't take the chance."

She holds up the knife, this time with the air of announcing a magic trick. Then she lays that down as well.

Whatever she might pull out from my chest? It won't be a rabbit.

It turns out to be the poultry shears. Good solid German craftsmanship, ten inches of gleaming chrome and sporting a pair of cruelly curved blades that only the most dedicated home cook would choose over a less intimidating, ergonomically safer design. Dana sets them on the floor in front of me with an expectant look, scanning my face for answers.

I shoot a quick look at Astor. She still looks puzzled, but something in the air has already turned sour. I can feel the change in my sister's vibe. As she might put it.

The cleaver is next. Mostly an attention grabber for size alone, it doesn't look particularly dangerous. But with each of its companions that joins it in the neat little display being laid out before us, I swear I can feel the temperature in the room drop another few degrees.

There's a brief and muffled choking from Deb at the sight of the bone saw. Dana gives her a moment to recover before producing the second one, placing them back to back like a set of conjoined twins. I'll be disappointed to lose that one. Incredibly rare, and discontinued.

My sister's eyes roam back and forth over the rows of polished stainless steel. Astor looks like she has no idea what to think, other than that this cannot possibly be good. Already I can see the telltale signs, the reluctant beginnings of darker questions inevitably taking on greater form and substance.

As for me? I'm flashing back to my first vampire kill, where I had to cut off both hands of what looked like a man before discovering I needed to set my aim higher. Along those lines, I suspect that the young woman currently holding us prisoner will soon pronounce and carry out her own sentence. One I'm not likely to survive. Or want to.

I'm thinking the only way to make this worse would be if she decides Deb and Astor are not hapless dupes, but in fact my accomplices in crime. Which makes me think of Lumen.

And Harrison.

"Tell me you didn't do these things." Dana's arms are wrapped tight around her knees. She rocks gently back and forth, staring me down. "Make me think it was me. Or Darla --"

My shirt is drenched in sweat, plastered onto my back. The sound of that name only brings to mind the sight of Rita grown twisted and foul, a parody of every memory that I hold dear. Along with another stabbing reminder of my son; with each passing moment, that much closer to gruesome death.

"Think fast." A tiny flash comes perilously near my eye. "Talk slow."

I see the scalpel shining, held in a practiced grip. I remain perfectly still as the blade glides bare millimeters above my flesh, parting all three layers of plastic with hardly a sound.

When she finally pulls back, I let out the breath I've been holding through the newly created aperture. It's barely enough to speak. I'm just happy for a few more moments of air.

"You should go back to Faith." I'm also happy to not sound too much like Donald Duck. My lips are rather awkwardly compressed. "You can trust her."

I hope it's true. I think it is.

Dana cocks her head, weighing options in the balance. The knife remains close enough that it looms larger than life in my vision. Some things are all about perspective.

"What if she says I should kill you?"

I wasn't expecting that. I wonder how many more surprises I have in store.

"She wouldn't," I reply. I realize the trap even as I speak.

Dana leans forward, glittering eyes reflecting twin images of dancing flame. "Why not?"

"The Slayer Code." I take the bait. Open wide. "It's not your job to kill humans."

"Oh," Dana says. Her hand falls to the small wooden box at her side.

"Is it yours?"

Between Astor and Deb, there's no comparison as to their reactions to this revelation. My stepdaughter's confusion has merely reached new heights, her struggle for understanding outweighing all other fears and concerns. In contrast, every drop of blood in my sister's face is rapidly draining away, leaving her pale as one of my brother's victims. She stares at the neat row of glass slides, her body rigid and still. Apart from the faintest of occasional tremors.

I think my sister is going AWOL. Which isn't too far-fetched, given her obvious thought process. Astor's lack of context only leaves her even more confounded. Whereas Deb is being run over by a freight train. Over, and over; the remains of her mind smashed into ever smaller pieces from the nuclear detonation of realizing that helping an abused woman murder five men was pretty fucking far from dear brother Dexter's first dance with death because

_HOLY_

_BALLS_

(Please don't let her swallow her tongue)

_MY BROTHER IS THE BAY HARBOR BUTCHER_

  


* * *

  


Deb has indeed left the building. I hope it's not permanent. Or an aneurysm.

A massive shadow blots out the little light I can see by. Then Dana lifts me up, stronger even than Astor. Also with better leverage, given her size. I don't bother to struggle.

She tosses me on the bed and rolls me onto my stomach. In less than the blink of an eye, she's slashed my upper body free from its ties that bind with quick, sure strokes of her -- _my_ knife. Her fingers twine deep in my hair and pull, arching my back to a more than painful degree.

"Convince me," Dana whispers. Her blade comes to rest against the stubble along my throat. "While you still can."

I have to ask. "What if I can't?"

I feel her forehead come to rest against the back of my skull. 

"I'll make it quick."

My head is spinning like it's about to come off. Bad metaphor.

"Don't you think --" I struggle to be heard. To be understood. "Someone else should have a say?"

A hollow laugh comes from somewhere up above.

"As if." Dana gives a very Faith-like snort. "Everyone loves Dexter."

Astor has been taking slow, deep breaths for the last few minutes, like a scuba diver preparing to go deep. Maybe she's processing oxygen more efficiently. In contrast, Deb's breathing sounds more labored by the moment. I think she's in danger of passing out.

"Let --"

I fall silent as the blade nicks my flesh. A trickle of blood descends through the maze of stubble, down the length of my neck.

"Let my sister go." I resist the urge to swallow. "Please. Before she --"

I'm flung down with a hard shove. My last words buried in the mattress, along with my face.

I remember my first encounter with Dana's work. The savage beauty; her skill unshackled by any sense of restraint. The bodies nearly beyond recognition.

I feel her climbing off of me. A moment later comes a loud inhalation like that of someone trapped underwater. It's followed by the sound of Deb coughing.

"Choose." Dana's command cuts through the harsh rasp of my sister's aspiration. I hear Deb swallow another cough.

"Wha--" Deb sounds like she's being dragged barefoot down a dusty gravel road. "What the f--"

"Brother's keeper." The pronouncement rings out. "Choose."

A horrible noise forces its way up from Astor's throat, leaking through her plastic gag. For a moment I envision her stiffening, rising up from the floor like some limbless centipede, straining with all her might. I hear a thump, and a muffled sob.

"I'm sorry." Dana comes across as perfectly sincere. Apologetic, even. "But this is family."

"Actually," I manage. "She's my foster si--"

"Shut the fuck up!" Deb snarls.

I obey on sheer reflex. Though from the look of things, I'm fast running out of line.

"Choose." Deb's still panting, like she's just run a mile. "Right."

I close my eyes, in search of solace. When I see Rita's smile, for the first time in weeks, something looks different.

She doesn't have fangs.

"All right." There's a new quality of dread behind Deb's dolorous declaration. And it makes me realize something else.

I don't want my sister to hate me.

"I choose..." Deb takes a deep breath, suppressing a shudder. Her agitation level is still through the roof, but there's a sort of calm that only comes from being utterly at peace with oneself. No matter what the future may bring.

"To let Astor decide."

I'm threading that needle when Dana responds, with grim finality. "Doesn't work that way --"

"Fuck you."

_Here we go._

"What are you gonna do? Kill me? Kill us all?" All of Deb's accumulated rage of a lifetime spills forth in a tidal wave of molten lava, inexorably inching ever closer. "So fucking what, that's what!"

I want to jump to my feet and cheer her on. At this point, I don't dare blink.

"Think you can make me dance to your tune, Superbitch?" Cold fury seems to boil over from Deb, billowing like steam from a bathtub full of dry ice. "Well, she's _my_ girlfriend. Not yours, so keep your fucking nose out of _our_ bedroom!"

I guess it's official?

"You want me to choose?" Deb growls like a starving animal. "You want me to fucking choose? Then I -- choose -- _Astor!_"

These last three words are each accompanied by a vigorous grunt and thud. Having accomplished no more than the rest of us in terms of freeing herself, my sister falls silent. Apart from rapid panting, as we lie in wait for the hammer to fall.

I throw caution to the wind and wrestle myself onto my back, sitting up once more. Dana stands in the middle of our little group with a look of utter frustration, seemingly struck dumb by the appallingly suicidal obstinance on display here. I'm wondering if we've broken her as well.

Finally she sighs, turns and kneels before Astor.

"Little sister." Dana's voice is more subdued as she directly addresses my daughter. "If I free you. Will you fight me?"

Astor swallows and shakes her head.

"Then choose."

Astor's eyes shut tight and I hear a terrified squeak. I'm on the verge of standing up at the sight of Dana's knife hand, moving like greased lightning. Then she pulls the plastic loose, rolling her captive away with a gentle shove from one foot until my daughter lies free and coughing, glaring up at the other Slayer.

"Astor." Deb sounds as though she's being strangled from the inside. "Don't --"

"_You_ don't --" Abruptly Dana lowers her head, as well as the knife. When she looks up, her mannerisms are visibly altered.

"I didn't plan any of this." Dana offers a rueful, crooked smile. The hard earned wisdom of premature adulthood; the sex appeal of a bad girl gone just good enough. "Course, that might be why I suck at relationships."

"Jesus," Deb mutters. Her dominant eye is fixed on Dana, the other looking more off center than usual. "You are one creepy ass little girl."

"I'm older than your girlfriend," Dana snaps. From the sound of things, back to herself. "And I'm trying to be nice. But you don't get to choose. You said --"

"Fine." Deb somehow manages to shrug without use of her arms, returning full hostilities solely through the power of staring back. "Then fucking get on with it, motherfucker."

"Geez."

All of us look over. Astor is climbing to her feet, standing on obviously shaky legs. 

"You know, Dexter's right." Astor sounds only slightly less than casual. "You should find some different words."

"I've been under a lot of stress." Deb glares up at her niece from her prone position. "Not feeling very creative."

"So you're just going to push it off on me?" And now Astor looks more than a little angry, the betrayal in her eyes equal to what I saw in Dana. 

"A decision this big." Astor glares back and forth between the two older women. "And you're going to make it my responsibility? Whether he lives or dies?"

Deb flushes scarlet, but doesn't look away. Dana merely watches, and waits.

"God d--" Astor inhales sharply. For a moment, I think she may do herself harm.

Slowly, her turmoil subsides as she kneels at the base of what resembles a floral arrangement in stainless steel. She runs her delicate fingers over each deadly instrument in turn, her face reflecting the struggle to reconcile everything she knows about me with my sister's baffling judgment by proxy.

Astor rises. Turns, and walks toward me.

With a knife in her hand.

"Good choice." I nod in approval. I don't feel it would add much to point out that the Mundial Future line actually comprises a full fifty percent of my standard carry roll.

Astor looks down at the blade, as if remembering it's there. The smallest of my chef's knives, at a mere six inches, I've always found it a little small. For her, it's perfect. 

"I hope you can follow Dana's example." I try to be gentle. Understanding to the last. "Just make it quick."

She looks like a trapped rabbit before the anger returns, along with something else. I try to puzzle out what it is as she approaches the bed, stopping just out of arm's reach. Omnipresent microtremors are present all throughout her body, from her unsteady legs to her grip on the hilt of my knife. For all her young womanhood, the image she presents is that of a lost child, desperate for the reassurance of the familiar.

For family.

"Did you --" Astor gathers all her courage as she looks me dead in the eye. "Did you kill Mom?"

"No."

I don't realize I've spoken aloud. My voice is barely audible.

"But it was my fault."

I feel myself crumbling deep within. I swallow the taste of copper and salt.

"I killed the man who did it." Searing shame oustrips regret or thought of grief. "But it was too late."

Astor's distorted features ripple in my sight. Is she crying?

"If I could trade my life. To have her back with you --"

Her disembodied voice is thick with emotion. "You'd do it?"

I cannot tell a lie.

"In a heartbeat."

Another murmured choking sound. Astor's face contorts in misery as she raises the knife and steps forward.

Then kneels, and wraps her arms around me.

"I hate you." I feel her crying too as she hugs me, Slayer-strong, so hard I can barely breathe. "I fucking hate you."

"I know," I manage. I hug back, embracing my daughter.

And our pain.

"I know."

  


* * *

  


I'm becoming aware of a growing tickle at the base of my neck. What Sergeant Doakes would have called my lizard brain. It's making it harder to remain lost in this flood of actual emotion. I'm probably imagining it, but suddenly I feel Deb's eyes like a laser, burning straight through both of our bodies.

I slowly disengage from Astor, my hands on her shoulders. My sister is a taut and silent presence as she watches us bond. I feel yet another tendril snap and come loose inside her, joining the growing number dangling raw and ragged.

I turn to see Deb staring at the rest of us, still wrapped in plastic from the neck down. As expected, she looks ready to tear me apart with her bare hands. The only thing stopping her -- apart from the obvious -- is that newly ascended pinnacle of self-loathing.

My sister's eyes flicker upward as Dana kneels at her side. There's a gentle, apologetic air to the Slayer's actions as Dana lifts up her captive's head to lay in in her lap; resting a comforting hand on Deb's forehead as she quickly and efficiently cuts away the layers of plastic sheeting.

"I'm sorry," Dana says. It sounds genuine, but my sister is looking more disturbed as she sits up, angrily shrugging off Dana's attempt to assist.

"You --" Deb shudders and shrinks back. "Don't touch me --"

"Aunt Deb." While Astor's disappointment is plain, her desire to help is greater still.

Deb scrabbles backward on her butt, managing at the last to scramble to her feet. She staggers sideways and clutches the door frame, staring in shock.

Then her gaze falls on me.

"You motherfucker." She barely breathes it. Staggered, in absolute awe at the breadth and depth of my motherfuckerness.

"Aunt Deb --"

"Mother _fucker_," Deb repeats. She says it more than twice. It's on the fifth repetition when she realizes that Astor is adopting a defensive stance, explicitly interposing herself between us.

I see the last vestige of structural support tumble free. The weight of the world settling on her shoulders. She reminds me of an herbivore, half buried in quicksand, only now finally coming to realize the tragic nature of her fate.

Deb turns and stumbles away, out into the burned remains of my living room. I hear her rip through the tape still blocking the front doorway. A faint but unmistakable retching sound reaches our ears.

"Go," I say. I meet Astor's gaze head on. "Tell her it's okay."

"It's not." Astor's face is streaked with tears. "We need to get Harrison back --"

"And we will. I promise." I open both hands to show my helpless state. "But we need her."

I don't add: _And she won't listen to me._

I can feel Dana's eyes upon me as we listen to the two of them argue out on the balcony. Mostly it's Astor, presenting the case for pragmatism as Deb tries and fails to get a word in edgewise. Her rising urgency to rescue her own brother aside, and despite whatever is going on, isn't it clear that Dexter loves his kids? That he's trying to do the right thing?

It's enough to make me blush.

Finally, Astor plays her hole card.

"Do you want to save my brother -- your _nephew_ \--" Astor holds for a dramatic pause. "From that bitch who looks like my mom?"

I hope the answer is yes. But I can't hear anything.

I hear footsteps. Then Deb looms in the doorway.

"Miami Metro isn't trained for this shit." Deb holds up her service weapon, clearly disgusted by its inadequacy. "I need to requisition some hardware."

"Are you sure?" I can't believe I'm expressing doubt. I should be cheering my greatest potential ally. "I don't want to get you in trouble."

Deb sends me a look of undiluted hydroflouric acid. Thankfully, she doesn't express herself aloud.

"Glad to have you," Dana says. While Deb's suspicion remains, this quiet recognition seems to act as a calming influence. 

"But where do we start?" Astor sounds as though she's suppressing the urge to yell at the stupid grownups. "They could be anywhere. They could be --"

"Don't say it." I can only repeat myself, somewhat lamely. "Don't."

"After all that nanny drama," Deb grumbles. "I _told_ you to get that goddamn GPS app. But no, Dexter's gotta be different --"

"I have it."

"What?" Deb blinks at me. I notice her gun is still out of its holster.

"I mean -- I do have it." I start to dig in my pocket before remembering. "Out in the car."

"What's out in the car?" Deb enunciates each word with perfect clarity, glaring claymores.

"My phone." I try not to belabor the obvious.

"And?" Deb sounds like she's fast running out of patience for the mentally challenged. "Do you have the app?"

"I installed it the day you told me about it." I can't help but sound more than a little defensive. "In all the confusion, it...must have slipped my mind."

My sister's lips move in silence. I think it reads _holy shit_.

Dana frowns. "What's an app?"

"Did --" Deb pauses, in fear of my response. "Did you activate it?"

I nod. "The day I installed it."

I see true dread in her eyes. Afraid to even dare hope.

"What's the key?"

"The medinfo pendant." I point to my chest. "On Harrison's necklace."

"Yes!" My sister pumps her fist in savage triumph. "Finally the universe isn't taking a corn-filled shit on us!"

Dana and Astor both emit mutual noises of combined protest and disgust. 

"I'll get it." Astor heads for the door, turning at the last moment to point a finger of warning. "Don't kill each other."

Somehow, we manage to adhere to her decree. Though it's probably for the best, I can't help but wonder about my odds. Not of winning. Just surviving for more than thirty seconds.

Luckily for me, Astor quickly returns from the car with my phone. It requires a moment's fiddling on my part, with Deb offering an overly sarcastic snort when I have to go into the settings and turn on my location. Dana watches the procedure in rapt and attentive silence, fascinated all out of proportion.

"There." I point to the screen for her benefit. "Industrial area. Fifteen minutes from here."

"Well, what the -- fairy dust are you waiting for?" Deb raises her eyebrows, daring us to say something.

Astor raises her hand, looking smug. "Shotgun."

Deb's still grumbling as she and Dana pile into the back of the SUV. I'm focusing on watching out for nosy neighbors when a startlingly loud burst of static causes everyone else to jump.

"Sorry." From between the seat cushions, Deb produces her police radio. She's adjusting the volume when it crackles to life again.

_"Calling all units. I repeat, calling all units --"_

"Dammit!" Deb snarls. "Not now --"

_"I have a code 40. Repeat, code 40, at Palm Terrace Apartments --"_

That's here.

_"Suspect is wanted in connection with multiple homicides. Considered armed and dangerous."_

All but one of us turn in our seats.

_"Use extreme caution."_

Dana looks around the circle.

_"Repeat."_

From one of us to the next, as the gravity of the situation fully sinks in.

_"Calling all units..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contained an excessive amount of metaphors, most of which weren't very good.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Invading the villain's stronghold. And for the first time -- but not the last -- switching POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Que sera, sera_  
Whatever will be, will be  
The future's not ours to see...  
_Que sera, sera..._
> 
> Much of the plot and dialogue in this chapter was only added in the last week, and even more only in the last few hours. And yet, more than ever, I couldn't be happier with the results. I can only hope at least some of you are equally pleased.
> 
> Also, you may notice I've finally added a few relationship tags that I avoided for a long time due to spoilers. And since it looks ever more certain that this story will be 21 chapters, I've made that official as well.

The click of a seatbelt being undone matches the similar sound of Deb shutting off her police radio. Then Dana's opening the rear door, already out of the car before anyone can protest. She leans on the window, hair falling in her eyes.

"Go." Her gaze radiates unfathomable pain and fatalistic certainty, sliding over each of us in turn before stopping on me. "Find your boy."

"You can't --" But Astor is unable to articulate just what it is she thinks Dana can't or shouldn't do.

"Don't worry. They're after me." Dana's grim smile holds an unmistakable mirth. "I'll lead them on a merry chase."

"No killing," Astor warns. She sounds more than ready to leap from the vehicle to enforce this.

Dana merely laughs, in that low and spooky way. Then she whirls and disappears, faster than my eyes can track.

I can hear Deb in the seat behind me, vocalizing just under her breath in the form of muttered presumptive obscenities. I look up in the mirror to find her staring out the back window, swearing up a subliminal storm. She finally turns and sees me, twitching like she's had a cactus shoved in her face.

"Jesus!" Deb glares back at my reflection. "Well? Spit or swallow, bi--"

"Come with us," I say. I can see she's not expecting the interruption. Not to mention the invitation.

"Think about it." I continue on, hoping for a happy outcome. "We know these vampires aren't completely stuck in the past --"

"Just mostly," Deb mutters.

"What if they're the ones calling in all these anonymous tips?"

I see a flicker of doubt in Deb's eyes. I take this as encouragement.

"Distraction tactics." I tick off points on my fingers. "Divide and conquer. They eliminate a major threat. And if Faith tries to help Dana get away from the cops? Two birds with one stone."

"Oh. Right." Deb glowers. "My girlfriend's got a body count too, doesn't she? Guess I can't be in your little murder club --"

"Aunt Deb!" Astor nearly shouts. She's breathing heavily, her anger and disappointment plain as the nose on her face.

"Exactly," I continue, not allowing myself to be deterred. "She's already a wanted fugitive --"

Deb's face screws up in revulsion and she throws up both hands, like she's trying to push me away. I mimic her, but in a peaceful fashion. It's all about indicating I'm no threat to her. Though I don't know how to meaningfully convey this in any sense other than the physical.

"Whatever identity Faith is using?" I point out. "Might not hold up if someone dug deep enough. And if Miami Metro can't get a straight answer, they'll just pawn her off on the feds."

Deb still looks torn. In three or four pieces. At least.

"They'd say thank you to the nice men from Homeland for taking her off their hands." The sad part is I don't have to lie, or exaggerate. "Go home, have dinner, and sleep the sleep of the just. Forget all about the crazy strong girl with the fake ID."

Deb's building resentment is approaching righteous levels. Partly because she knows I'm right. It's never a good feeling to not have options.

"And sure, it would be nice to have Faith along with us. Or Dana." I direct this to Astor. "But you're a Slayer too."

Astor looks terrified; jubilant, standing straight and tall. I wish I had epaulets to pin upon her. War paint to apply. Some kind of ceremony to make her feel more at home in this scary new role, so she doesn't feel quite so much like an imposter wearing big sister's clothes.

I reach out and squeeze her shoulder. I can feel the bones through her thin shirt, the thrum of power in her slight but growing muscles.

I keep it simple.

"You can do this."

  


* * *

  


The police station takes longer than I'd been hoping. Thankfully in this case, good things do indeed come to those who wait. To wit, a pair of practically brand new AA-12 fully automatic shotguns, more than capable of blowing off limbs or removing other sizable chunks of anatomy. Like a head.

You'd think that laying hands on this kind of weaponry would take some time, even for an officer of the law. To the eternal chagrin of auditors, Miami Metro is like most big city cop shops in that it's usually easier to ask forgiveness than permission. Deb probably could have walked out with half the contents of the armory and not drawn much attention. Assuming we survive, the real headache comes after the battle. That's when every last bullet fired has to be accounted for. In triplicate.

It turns out the real delay was due to my sister having another chat with Joey Quinn. As soon as he'd gotten back to the station, Lieutenant LaGuerta's first act had been to bench him on the grounds of conflict of interest. Naturally, this only made him bound and determined to pay her back with additional interest of his own. As a result, Quinn's usual suspicions regarding me took a back seat to the unreliability of the confidential sources our boss had been relying on. Doesn't quite pass the smell test, you know? Someone really ought to look into that.

The shit being successfully stirred, we were ready to move out. We just had one more stop.

Our streak of good luck holding steady, we're out of the bar in less than five minutes. The proprietor was more than happy to take my money. Astor didn't even have to threaten him with her confiscated merchandise.

"How many you think?" Astor holds her prize aloft, peering down the length of wood.

"Five and a shorter." I watch her run her thumb over the surface of the pool cue, surveying it for weak spots. "I'd do the short from the thick end. Save the thin one for softer targets."

Astor frowns. "Like what?"

"Eyeball's good." I reconsider. "On people. But you'd have to think it would be reasonably effective on vampires."

Astor appears fascinated and repelled. From the sound of it, my sister comes down more on the latter side of the equation.

"They seem to have a higher pain tolerance," I note. "But they definitely feel it."

Deb shakes her head. "You mother fucker."

I try to be patient. "Can we not start that again?"

"One? Shut the fuck up. Two? Give me your phone. Three?" Deb cracks her knuckles and levels a baleful glare. "Drive."

These things accomplished, we're soon speeding along toward our destination. I'm actually just barely breaking the speed limit. Nevertheless, it's a quiet ride. Apparently we've gotten all the talking out of the way.

Normally I'd be relieved to be free from the burden of conversation. Now, it's yet another reminder of how much things have changed. If you had told me a few short months ago even a mere ten percent of everything I'd soon be dealing with, my first response would probably have been to have you committed under the Baker Act. Impossible to know what tomorrow will bring. What I might soon consider unremarkable.

But it's starting to feel like the dance I've been doing all my life is running low on ways to keep it going. A clockwork mechanism grown rusty from years of disuse, and near to winding down.

I can't lose Harrison. He's the keystone holding everything together. Helping me keep all the balls in the air, juggling my increasingly complicated life.

Deb's terse directions are leading me down familiar roads. It doesn't take more than a few minutes to recognize the territory we're heading into. Whatever the location of Darla's evil lair, it's in this same scattered maze of abandoned factories and office buildings. Part of the backwater industrial complex where I found and took down my first vampire, more by luck than anything else.

I pull to a stop and kill the lights. Astor is already tensing up.

"Can you see?" I ask her.

Astor stares out the window, letting her eyes adjust. We're far enough from downtown that you can almost see the stars. Then again, no light pollution means hardly any light.

"Not really," she concedes. "Vamps have better night vision."

"Oh?" I must sound skeptical.

"Faith said so."

That settles it. "What about hearing?"

"Better." Astor's eyes glaze over for a second before she returns to the present. "Not super."

"Good to know." I check the phone, then point to a tall dark shape in the distance. "I think it's that one."

Astor's hasty whittling job is rough but serviceable. She silently hands each of us one of the larger stakes made from the pool cue, tucking the rest into her belt loops. Deb shakes her head and pockets the stake, then goes back to surveying the shadowy landscape outside, cradling her shotgun across her lap and stroking the barrel like a sleeping pet.

As long as my sister is more mad than scared, I'm not too worried. Though judging by her expression when I picked up the other shotgun, I may have to watch out for friendly fire.

The Mommymobile sputters and sighs and falls silent. I leave the keys to dangle in the ignition, ready and waiting.

"Let's go."

  


* * *

  


We could have made it a bit further before the state of the roads forced us to walk. Only time will tell if I made the right call. The potholes are getting large enough to pose the risk of a broken leg if we don't take it slowly and carefully. I ignore the wordless, unthinking animal whose only message is to run. As fast as possible.

Astor moves like a cat beside me, Deb with only slightly less grace and speed. A trio of urban soldiers without uniforms, we move methodically forward into the interior. Behind us lies the motorway, main artery of Miami's perpetual traffic sprawl; farther on ahead the harbor and the open bay. The surreal atmosphere is in no way diminished by the eerie sounds from a flock of laughing gulls, roaming inland to scavenge for food.

Our target is a three-story former office on the other side of a large parking lot. Choked and overgrown with weeds, the surface is littered with shards of broken glass, glittering in the moonlight. A rusting utility shed sits at the edge of the lot, its rear wall in the final stages of collapse.

We hunker down behind the shed to take stock of our situation. It doesn't look any better from here. In fact, it looks decidedly worse.

I'm about to say something to Astor when I see her nostrils flare, inhaling deep. The night air is thick and humid, without a hint of a breeze to cool things off.

"They're here," she whispers.

I frown. "You can smell them?"

"No." From Astor's scorn, the _dumbass_ goes without saying. I hear Deb stifle a snicker.

Astor opens her eyes. The fire is back, and stronger.

"I feel them."

Even with my admittedly incomplete knowledge of Slayer lore, that's good enough for me. Almost.

"Any idea where?" I can't make out a hint of light or movement inside. "Front? Back? Bottom --"

"No." Her reply is clipped and short.

The shotgun already feels heavier. I'm in reasonably good shape, but Deb will probably keel over before admitting weakness. Still, it would be nice if Astor was carrying this kind of firepower. Slayer strength notwithstanding. When life is unfair from start to finish, you'd be a fool to throw away any advantage.

The main problem is our lack of cover from any angle of approach. I'm weighing the risk involved in splitting up when Deb pokes me in the arm. She leans in and holds up my phone.

"I think they're up top." She zooms in the display with a two-finger gesture. "In the back."

I squint at the glowing green rectangles, the floating red dot that represents Harrison's pendant. "You can tell?"

"Fine grain GPS." For once, Deb doesn't sound the least bit self-satisfied at being the imparter of knowledge. "Accurate to less than a hundred meters."

"Are you dissing my Slayer sense?" But Astor is smiling. A grim sort of delight, but with unmistakable hope.

"Just proving she knows my phone better than I do." I point to what looks like the front entrance. "Ladies first?"

"Hold on." Deb digs out her radio and snaps on the big red switch.

My first instinct is to object. "Are you sure --"

"Gonna call in a flyover." Deb still sounds raw. Less bloody. "Give these bitches a little distraction of our own."

_The police helicopter._ I don't have to think about it for long. I merely nod, and wait.

Deb's voice is hushed as she puts in the request, hand cupped around the receiver. Even at her lowest volume, the static-laden reply from the dispatcher echoes across the concrete and off the front of the building. I'd be surprised if they didn't hear that on the top floor.

"Ten minutes," Deb declares. Completely unnecessarily, I might add.

I'm right behind them. Actually slightly to the left, as we set out across the pocked and cratered expanse. The light crunch of glass beneath my sneakers is just loud enough to put me on higher alert. But it's already well ground up; in some spots near to powder.

I'm a rogue demon hunter. With a shotgun.

It's probably tempting fate to wonder how much more surreal my life can get.

I should have been counting seconds. It feels like less than five minutes have passed. Then again, it seems like most of my problems these days stem from running on feelings.

Deb falls back from Astor, holding up the phone for me to see. The screen now displays a timer, in the process of flipping from 4:57 to 58. I don't let my accuracy allow me to get cocky. But it does make me feel better.

There's that word again. It makes me think of Lumen. More than ever before, in danger because of me. Because of our feelings. Of Harrison, uncomprehending as he watched his mother die; like my childhood self, invisibly scarred for life in a baptism of blood. And of my own struggle to become a real boy. To do more than just blend in with the crowd.

To belong.

It would be disappointing to lose my one and only life before I even finished getting started. Becoming human, that is. 

Three stories at a distance is much different from closer in. The dilapidated concrete walls are more or less intact without looking at all structurally sound. I hope the floors are in better condition.

In the distance a faint thrum. The sound of rotor blades, growing louder by the second.

We cover the last few yards in a mad dash, with Deb and I taking up position on either side of the entrance. I hold up one hand, and try the door.

Locked.

Light rotates in the sky. The air quickens, the whip and chop of rotors now directly overhead.

"Can you open that?" I whisper, my hand on Astor's shoulder. "Quietly."

My heart quickens at her feral grin.

"Let's find out."

Deb and I watch as Astor steps up and reaches out. Above the chopper slowly circles, its spotlight roaming over the rooftop and uppermost windows. 

The metal handle is painted a dull white, its coat almost entirely flaked away. Astor's hand is tiny in comparison, the expression on her face as her grip bears down and her shoulders tremble like someone threading a needle with a barbell. Strength and concentration in perfect balance. Until I hear a grunt, a dull click from inside and a faint squeak from the handle itself.

Astor flexes her fingers and lets go, dusting off her hands. Overhead the chopper banks right, veering off to head out over the bay.

"You okay?" I whisper.

Astor looks at me like I'm only mildly retarded. She's about to open the door when Deb lays a hand on her shoulder. Astor looks up.

"I'll lead." Deb's tone brooks no argument. Astor hesitates, then nods.

"And stay by me," I add.

I don't mention the obvious fact that I consider this more for my sister's protection than my own. Astor, having apparently correctly interpreted me, isn't sure if she wants to be offended. Luckily, we have bigger fish to fry.

I'm waiting for the hinges to announce our arrival, but there's barely a hint of a squeaking sound as the door swings open. Deb's entry is tactical, my own less so. Yet the sensation as I swivel around and our backs come up against one another is positively electric. Almost literally, before it becomes a silent shout of exultation.

The entryway and the waiting room are deserted, beyond decrepit. Past there the whole first floor opens up into a maze of temporary cubicles, the remnants of a better time. Any valuable contents have been long removed by the final owner, leaving only the cheap beige and metal borders that signify each worker's bit of divided territory.

Deb moves with comparative ease, gliding forward as if borne on wheels; clearing each successive obstacle and blind spot. I'm sweating more heavily under my shirt and my palms are slick where they grip metal. It's taking too long to get through this maze, to the fire door on the far wall and the hopefully usable staircase behind.

At least I'm also less worried about Harrison. After all, the whole point of a hostage is to have something to bargain with. Although that might make Lumen more expendable in their eyes.

Astor comes to a halt, looking around. Deb glances back and likewise freezes in place, waiting for her cue.

I raise an expectant eyebrow. Just to be sure, I also raise my stake and impale the air.

A tiny snort of air escapes from Deb's nose. Astor shakes her head, pauses, then again. The second looks less definitive, more deliberately uncertain.

Deb swallows, and moves aside. Astor doesn't hesitate, stepping forward with stake in hand to take up the lead.

The last of the cubicles is behind us. We spread out and hug the wall, Astor on point facing the fire door. The single small rectangular window is a featureless void.

The door handle is on my side. Before I can stop myself, I reach over and pull.

Deb stands at five o'clock, her shotgun trained dead center as I hold the door wide open. Astor clutches her stake and stares into the heart of darkness. For a split second I wonder what I'm doing, even as I realize this really is the most logical use of our available resources. But these are more than resources.

They're my family.

The darkness sprouts a pale hand.

Astor lunges forward as I ignore my instinct to slam shut the door. Already the hand has grabbed onto what I now see to be its real objective, the barrel of my sister's shotgun. By the cry that bursts forth from her lips as it's yanked free of her grasp, the way she clutches her hand, I suspect at least one broken finger.

I'm watching through that small rectangular window, my back pressed against the wall as I hold the door. Watching as a whirling dervish springs forth, spinning like a top, driving Astor back a few yards.

The blur comes to a standstill, resolving into a man. More likely a former man, who faces off against Astor in a classic kung fu pose. His outstretched fingers wiggle in blatant invitation, all but daring her to attack.

Deb hurls herself on him from behind, grabbing at his face. The vamp merely turns abruptly in place, with enough force to hurl her right back off.

His back is toward me.

I step past the door. I raise the stake.

Astor's triumphant shout coincides perfectly with my target's dismal yell. My left-handed strike isn't perfect, but damn close considering: From the side, up and under, driving in just so to slip right between the ribs.

The vampire struggles, a wordless shriek escaping his mouth. His limbs flail as I lean in and grind hard, pushing further. His back arches, the scream becoming a sigh as body and clothes crumble in my grasp.

"Oh, bravo."

The baritone compliment is accompanied by the faint sound of someone clapping. Something about it sounds odd. As the new challenger steps forth, I realize it's a skin texture thing. As in this thing is covered in scales.

"Seriously -- nice work." The demon nods its horned and scaly head, looking around at each of us. "But let's be honest. Nobody expects much from a vamp. Am I right?"

Our reptilian contender is something of an iguana, with extra throwback to the age of the dinosaurs. Also wearing a nicer set of clothes than the last demons I tangled with: A well-worn black leather motorcycle jacket, matching pants, and a scuffed and beaten pair of combat boots I assume are steel-toed. I wonder it's an attempt at psychological warfare. Surely it must intimidate some species, wearing mammal skins like trophies.

"But I'm here to tell you," the demon continues. For all the world like we're discussing the weather, or the latest in celebrity scandals. "You walk away now. Or you don't walk at all."

"Big words." Astor stands at the ready, both eyes on her foe. My sister has reacquired her shotgun and glares at the newcomer, her face reflecting pain and puzzlement.

"What the fuck are you supposed to be?" Deb shakes her head. "And why the fuck am I even asking?"

"You want to know what I am?" The demon sounds dangerously amused.

Astor moves. Like a bolt of lightning.

I barely see her fly through the air in the opposite direction. The sound of her body hitting the cubicle is like an explosion of things hitting other things, coming apart in turn; a racket and a half that seems to go on far longer than it ought to. The chaos comes to rest and the clatter dies down, punctuated by a groan from beneath one of the fallen walls.

The demon stands with one fist outstretched.

"I'm a pro."

Deb gapes in disbelief as he turns and grins, flicking a forked tongue.

"Care to surrender?"

  


* * *

  


"Have you ever been in one of those really smothering relationships?"

I can't help sounding sarcastic. "You'd be amazed."

Oh. Right.

Maybe I should back up a little.

My name is Lumen. And yes, I took some shit in school. Got over it quick. Had what you might call a premature midlife crisis. Ran away to the big city, in search of something better.

Where it all went to hell.

It was just bad luck. That, and my unfortunate resemblance to someone's teeenage obsession. Twelve other women before me had been abducted by this psycho and his secret club. They'd been held prisoner, raped and tortured and passed around until their captors got bored. And then they were murdered. Stuffed into barrels, dumped in the swamp like so much garbage.

I would have been the next to die. And believe me when I say that at that point, I thought there was nothing I wanted more.

But my luck changed.

I was only in community college for a short time. But while I was there, I did a minor in journalism. So I know there are a few more things I should tell you.

Except I don't know where I am. Though I have some idea, I'm a little rough on the when. As well as the precise details of why. In this case, ignorance is far from bliss. Other than my own identity -- something I've fought harder to hold on to than most people -- the only thing clear is the what.

Which is a kidnapping. Plain and simple. One second I'm watching my serial killer boyfriend getting his face beat in by his sister the cop who's been hypnotized by an insane vampire, and if any of this sounds beyond the pale, just think of how twisted my life had to become for the phrase _serial killer boyfriend_ to even exist in the first place. Let alone for it to be the most normal and reassuring part of that sentence.

I remember passing my snapping point. Screaming aloud to prevent myself from a suicidal kamikaze attempt at a rescue. And then an arm round my neck like an iron bar, slender, impossibly strong.

Some time later I'm drifting through the fog. Harrison is crying. Someone else is shushing him, trying to sooth and reassure. I know something is wrong with this, but I can't put my finger on it.

When I remember, I nearly break my own neck sitting up. Pain lances through my body, the sure sign of prolonged bad posture. I can't maintain, and crash back down to earth. Or what feels like a concrete floor.

"Oh, good." A woman's voice, sounding pleased. Familiar in a bad way. "I've been simply dying for intelligent conversation."

I remember this dance. Funny how quickly it comes back, this ritual of waking up. Testing each part of yourself; checking for fresh injuries, restrictions on movement. It doesn't have to be anything blatant like rope or handcuffs. One of Jordan's gang got a kick out of covering me in multiple layers of thin silk bedsheets while I was passed out. I'd wake up half smothered, thrashing and gasping, barely able to scream. He couldn't get enough of it.

This is better. I'm still groggy, and my throat feels bruised when I try to swallow. Hands tied behind my back. As far as these things go, pretty standard.

Harrison raises his voice again in protest. He's not a happy camper.

"Shush, baby."

It's the other one. A Cockney accent so thick, it grates on my ears.

"Why do you cry so?" The vampire sounds genuinely hurt. "I only want to show you the stars."

"He's not interested." Darla's boredom also contains a rising impatience, that sounds to be wearing thin. "Boys only like things that go fast. And explode."

"Stars explode." Drusilla's voice is hopeful and dreamy. "Send out all sorts of stuff to make more."

"But they take billions of years to do it." Darla's tone is both instructive and dismissive. "I'm immortal, and I don't have the patience. "

An audible pout from Dru. "You've no romance in your heart."

"Long since burned out." The chill from Darla marks the end for this particular train of conversation. 

I've managed to finagle myself into sitting upright, with somewhat less than optimal positioning. I raise my head to find myself in a huge and empty room, suffused with the soft light of a thousand candles -- okay, maybe a hundred. The important thing is that it's pretty damned impressive. They adorn every square inch of exposed surface, which is mostly floor.

"Do you like my posies?" Drusilla floats by in my rapidly clearing field of vision. Harrison's face is blotchy and red, contorted in misery, vainly protesting the arms that bear him up.

Even with both hands free, I've no stake or other weapon. No way to kill or temporarily disable one vampire, let alone two. I've seen what these things can do. I've felt it myself, in their terrifying strength and swiftness. And to add to the puzzle, so many other women -- even junior high school girls -- appear more than capable of holding their own against these creatures. And then some.

I'd hoped to learn more from those women. Now I'm ready any moment for it to be my last. My biggest fear is a slow death. Or something I can't foresee. And my biggest regret is not getting to spend more time with the man who saved me.

The man I've been trying to save.

I know. Take away all the blood and violence, the supernatural world, and most people would roll their eyes at trying to tackle a Project Boyfriend of this magnitude. Probably scoff at the notion of even trying to get close to someone like Dexter Morgan. Trying to care.

Me? Harder not to care.

As in: Impossible.

From the moment he unwittingly rescued me from the death I thought I craved, our fates were intertwined. We'd tried to make the best of it, for a time. But it took a trip back to the place I hoped would still be home for me to realize how badly I needed the companionship of a man who couldn't rid himself of the compulsion to kill. Who'd been trained to channel that need into an outlet that a scarily large number of his fellow citizens would probably find acceptable.

One way or another, I'd made my decision. From the moment I showed up on Dexter's doorstep, I was ready for anything. Or so I thought. But even after the idea of vampires became reality, I guess I was subconsciously relying on the statistically improbable number of Slayers around me. None of whom are currently available.

"Why are you doing this?"

Like I said. Gathering information.

"Why do bees make honey?" Dru hums under her breath, waving her fingers over Harrison's head. If she's trying to distract him, he's not biting. At least he's stopped crying.

"Biological imperative." I manage to clearly outline each syllable. Dru gives me a scornful look.

"You have no soul." Drusilla bounces Harrison in her arms, refusing to look at me. Darla chuckles.

"Have you ever been in one of those..." Darla ponders momentarily on the most suitable word to drive home her point. "Suffocating relationships?"

I try not to sound sarcastic. "You'd be amazed."

Again that velvet smooth sound of amusement issues from her throat. I've never had a gay bone in my body, and suddenly I want to bone her. Badly. I wonder if it's a vamp thing.

"I amaze myself these days." Darla shakes her head as she settles into a cross legged position before me. She's wearing a light summer floral dress. I think it's giving me deja vu.

"You like it?" She strikes a fetching pose, tipping an imaginary wide-brimmed hat. "I found all sorts of bargains at this lovely estate sale."

"Mama!" Harrison waves a pudgy set of fingers.

"He wants his mama." Drusilla beams, proud of her deductive skills.

"You're not his mother." It's out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Darla appears impressed at my audacity.

"Why not?" Darla shrugs, affecting innocence. "Someone has to be."

I don't bother trying to think of a witty reply. The longer I play her game, the longer my own odds become.

Darla leans in close. I try not to pull back as she runs a single scarlet fingernail down the length of my cheek, coming to rest on my carotid.

"If I were you?" Her delicate voice is like a bird's, all the more menacing. "I'd concentrate on finding a way to return to my beloved. Without any... interesting new scars."

I can't help it.

I don't look away.

The moment stretches out as I stare into her eyes. Pale blue and full of malice, they seem to expand and swallow me whole. I don't know what I'm thinking. Other than she could slash my throat without moving more than a finger.

"Well." Darla's expression of surprise is slowly fading. I already don't like the fact that she's looking decidedly pleased.

"Indeed." Dru is likewise staring at me with something far more than mere hunger. Harrison is still reaching out to Darla, waving one arm with a look of growing frustration. Her smile rapt with joy, Drusilla sets Harrison down on the floor, relinquishing her grasp.

I don't say a word.

"You know how often I see that lack of fear?" Darla's smile is Rita to a T. Picture perfect. "Once in a lifetime. If that."

"Tempered in the belly of a star." Drusilla pronounces this with hushed awe. "Steel to make the gods themselves bleed..."

"You know pain." Darla's statement is pure and simple truth. "You wear your scars like armor."

Harrison tugs on the hem of Darla's dress, looking up with great expectations. She reaches down and gathers him into her arms, cooing in quiet pleasure.

"Oh, yes." Her eyes sparkle with possibilities. "You, my dear...will be exquisite."

A dread hand clutches my heart.

"What are you talking about?" But I know. Even as the words leave my mouth.

"Why, what do you think?" Darla leans down, her pert nose nearly brushing my own. "As one of us."

All thought has fled. I'm only dimly aware of a slowly growing horror.

Drusilla bounces and claps her hands, giddy as a schoolgirl. Darla's gaze softens, in genuine sympathy.

"Of course, you'll be ravenous when you wake up."

Harrison is still waving his arms as she sets him down in front of me. He smiles, and laughs.

"But don't worry."

Her eyes remain locked on mine as she bestows the softest kiss on the top of his head.

Inhaling deeply, with obvious appreciation.

"I'll be sure to leave you a little something."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two more scenes of non-Dexter POV. Lots of talk. Lots of action. And oh, so much drama.

The important thing is to show no fear.

I've always been good at that. As long as I didn't have to pretend, it was easy. I floated through life in a placid bubble of self-possession, insulated from the woes and worries of the world around me. But it's hard to retain composure when I see a Slayer -- even one who's still growing -- taken down with a single blow. Flung back like a rag doll about twelve feet.

Down, but not out. Astor is pushing aside the wreckage of the cubicle farm, her groan of pain turning to an angry growl.

"So what does that mean?" I address the demon who put her there. Our friendly neighborhood biker iguana. "You're working under contract?"

"What part of 'pro' did not sink in?" The demon blinks before sliding back what appear to be nictating membranes. "You think I discuss my fee structure with any meatbag who wants to make conversation?"

"What should we be discussing?" Deb holds her shotgun steady, aimed directly at the demon's chest. "Your Sid Vicious fashion sense?"

"Much as I love a good round of banter." The corners of his impossibly wide mouth curl into commas. "And who doesn't -- you two better hope that little one can stand and deliver."

I raise the stock to my shoulder, adding my shotgun to the one already targeting his vitals. The demon shakes his head, with an air of annoyance.

"Trust me, junior." The vertical slits in his eyes contract as he watches Astor slowly circling him. "The only way you're walking out of here is if she takes me out."

It's annoying to be so readily dismissed. But without a better understanding of this thing's weak points, I'll be damned if I'm getting within arm's reach.

Astor flies in under his radar; crouching low as she slides in, landing a crushing blow to one knee. Rather than stagger or cripple, it seems to glance off of him, accelerate her trajectory off and away at an odd angle. She stumbles to a halt, whirling about in open-mouthed outrage and confusion.

"It's okay." The demon scratches thoughtfully at his pointy chin with a pair of three-inch claws. "It's not you."

Now that I examine him closer, this fellow seems older than his clothes. Hard to explain how a hairless reptile can look ancient, or even middle-aged. Unless it's a turtle. But an image suddenly springs to mind of some renegade student, expelled for having brought shame upon his teacher and his school. Forced to make his own way, with an incomplete physical and moral education. I get the strong impression of a being who trained obsessively, honing his skills to rise far above his potential to the point of being able to more than hold his own against a Slayer. Or at least the untrained and immature.

Thankfully, Astor is smart enough to know when she needs to know more. Despite her naked and open desire to reduce her opponent to a strained and bloody pulp, she's holding back.

"Yeah?" Astor shoves her hair from her eyes and grabs the end of a metal bracket sticking up from one of the cubicle walls. She works it back and forth, yanking it loose with a loud snap. "Come on!"

Despite her show of bravery, I see the uncertainty. I would be too, if I'd gotten used to feeling invincible. But her stance is perfect; her jaw firm as iron in stone.

"That's not how it works," the demon replies. He sticks out his pointy chin, raps it twice with his own spiked fist. "You first."

I barely see Astor move before the shockwave hits. Not literally, but a wall of sound like a bell that just got rung. She staggers back with a look of pain, her impromptu katana falling from her trembling fingers and hitting the floor. 

"Lemme know when you get tired." The demon shakes his head again. "Kids these days, huh? Your parents must be so pro--"

His monologue breaks off in a grunt of surprise as Astor swoops in, burying her stake in his chest. Rather, she tries to. The result is a mostly silent _whomp_ of impact that sends her stumbling back again, barely able to hang onto her weapon.

The demon snorts, brushing his jacket with a look of annoyance. He stops, puzzled, before glancing down and seeing the fresh new tear.

"Wow." The demon's glare promises imminent vengeance. "Okay. That's what I get for being nice."

I have a vague theory. If I'm right, I don't want to pull the trigger.

"I'll show you nice," my sister growls. The sound of a slide being racked echoes from wall to wall. "Sayonara, suckhead."

"Deb! No --"

The boom hollows out my eardrums and sends out a rain of plaster dust from the wall behind. I'm barely able to focus enough to be surprised that her target actually takes a step back, shaking his head for the first time in apparent disorientation rather than disbelief. Unfortunately the damage is minor, and once again strictly cosmetic.

"Lady?" The ugly demon levels an uglier glare at Deb, picking distastefully at the multiple ragged perforations in his jacket. "You don't want to know what I'm gonna do with that."

"If the answer's anything but pay for it?" My sister is clearly shaken, but remains undaunted. "You can piss right back to whatever scummy fucking hellpit spawned you."

"You people would kill to move in next door to me." The demon's anger is still bubbling, but down to a respectable simmer. His yellow eyes are tinged with a dull red. "I don't have to take this crap." 

Deb's shotgun remains rock steady. "Cause you're not just the president, you're also a client?"

"I got two words." The demon holds them up like a British insult, exuding a smug air of checkmate. "Rent control."

Deb blinks, looking impressed and disturbed. "Shit."

"That's right." The demon gives her a short, brisk nod. "So you can save your smart remarks for the unlikely event in which Little Miss Pokey Stick hands me my ass on a platter. Cause you two ain't even a warmup."

He cracks his knuckles, grinning at Astor.

"She's the main event."

  


* * *

  


I'm dying. Slowly, but certainly; as inevitable as always and every day on this earth, for each and every one of us. Only sooner than I'd like. Or expected.

I know it'll be soon. But I know it won't be the end.

And that scares me more than anything.

They drained me. To the brink of death and leaning over the edge into the great beyond, hanging by a spider's thread and God help me, by that point I would have happily sacrificed myself. Gone out with a smile. But survival instinct is a powerful thing. And apart from knowing the fate that lay in store for me -- for the helpless little boy entrusted to my care -- the worst thing about it was how they made me enjoy it.

I don't want to talk about it. But I thought nothing could be worse than what I'd gone through during the short time I'd been held captive by Jordan Chase and his merry band of sadists. When I sat down with Dexter to figure it out, I was shocked at how little time I'd spent locked away in Boyd Fowler's attic.

And these fucking vampires had smiled as they'd drained me; watched my body betray me twice over. Because after the bare fight for survival, few living things can ignore the eternal urge to reproduce. The basic drive behind every pursuit of pleasure.

I hadn't lied to Dexter. We'd done so many things together. And I didn't regret one bit of it. But when I returned to him, seeking to comfort and be comforted, sex had been the last thing on my mind. Even having seen the men responsible for so much pain brutally executed -- hell, doing it myself -- had only proven temporary solace.

I needed Dexter in my life. Not only to care about, but to help him. To do everything he couldn't or didn't have time for. In short, to be his first mate. Which is ironic given the troubles I was having.

I knew I couldn't replace Rita. All I wanted was to do my best to fill the role. To give this man and his children the strength and support that he had shown me.

The love they so desperately needed.

My limbs feel like heavy rubber and I'm floating in warm syrup, unable to move. Scalding hot liquid leaks from my eyes, runs past my ears as I stare at cracks in the ceiling. Beside me Harrison babbles away, his uncertain touch running over my forehead. He clumsily strokes at a tousled lock of hair, at the curve of my cheek and its trail of tears.

I want to tell him how sorry I am. For all that's past, and what's to come. 

"Die-die."

"Wha..." My lips and tongue feel parched. Harrison's hands are soft and pink, and delicately scented of hypoallergenic body wash.

His eyes search mine for meaning. I want to cry out, to raise the roof and shake the foundations, to scream at him to run and never stop. To get as far from me and this place of death as his wobbly little legs will carry him.

Before it's too late.

Something gurgles deep in my belly. A squeezing fist wrings a gasp of pain from my throat, sends a fresh wave of tears flowing down the sides of my face.

A tiny weight settles on my chest. The scent of shampoo and clean skin fills my nostrils as Harrison wraps his arms around me and snuggles in.

"Die-die..."

I can't let this be the end.

It's the last thing I carry with me.

Down into the dark.

  


* * *

  


I don't know how this will end. With each volley between Astor and this new demon, every one-sided exchange of blows, it's looking more and more hopeless. At least she's occupying his attention enough that Deb and I can circle around like referees. Except we're only able to follow half the action. With Astor focusing on speed over power, our friend the iguana can't lay a talon on her.

Unfortunately, none of the blows she's landed have done anything more than further piss him off. As far as blunt force trauma goes, he appears to be near completely immune. I keep wondering if he'll try taking Deb or myself hostage. It's what I would do, but for whatever reason, he fights with honor. So far.

"Gettin' tired?" The demon actually sounds a little winded himself, but there's not a cut or bruise anywhere on him. For all of Astor's efforts, she might as well have been beating him in a pillow fight.

She's also smart enough not to waste her breath on a response. Instead she hangs back at a safer distance, calculating her next move. Her knuckles are chafed and swollen and she favors her right foot.

Astor feints left, goes in low. I can already see the demon overextending as he reaches down. The movie in his head, where he imagines lifting her off of the ground like a struggling infant, ineffectually flailing her arms and legs. A proper humiliation before an appropriate finishing move.

"All right, you --" The demon breaks off as he realizes Astor has slipped out of his grasp, pulling his arm along with her between his legs. She comes out behind having successfully reversed his grip, adding sufficient force to flip him over onto his back.

Most people would stop there or try for a broken arm. Instead, Astor springs into motion -- running backward. Dragging him along with until his other arm lashes out, forcing her to relinquish her prize.

The lack of banter lets me know he's really mad now. Enough that he's barely paying attention to Deb and I. We might as well be the audience.

There really should be one. Astor is relentlessly executing every throw and takedown I've taught her, an epic of poetry in motion. Time and again she eludes his claws by a hair, agile as Jackie Chan's monkey; taking every opportunity to inflict pain through gravity and small joint manipulation. The floor is littered with fresh craters, left by the invisible force that surrounds his body. I can't help thinking that one of them is going to make a mistake.

Soon.

I've already cast my shotgun aside. My only thought is to keep it out of the enemy's hands. I need both of mine free. Stake in the right hand, open left, as Deb and I try to follow the rampaging storm of chaos.

Astor goes in for another throw. Except it looks wrong. I realize why before her opponent does: It's another fakeout, designed to expose his weak side. Which apparently she and I have both figured out. The growl as he hits the floor actually sounds like an expression of pain.

From the way he moves his right arm, that shoulder is wearing out. Unfortunately, so is Astor. We have to end this.

The sooner the better.

I draw back my foot for a kick. Astor sees me. So does the demon, who actually stops struggling. Probably waiting for me to break all my toes on the force field surrounding his head.

I send my foot at his face, with all my power.

And stop just before impact.

The demon blinks. I reach down with the toe of my sneaker, barely pushing as I scrape the bottom of my shoe along his cheek.

_"Fuck!"_

Astor leaps back, having once more let go of his wrist. I don't hesitate either. As he clambers to his feet, I can see him wiping a smear of blood from under his left eye. I figured by now there had to be plenty of glass shards in there. What I didn't count on was how effective they'd be.

"Looks like I was wrong." A new and grudging respect is present in the demon's irritation. He nods to Astor, his eyes never leaving me. "Your old man?"

"Whatever," Astor snaps. Her stance is solid as she goes back to focusing on breathing.

"Trained you good." The demon looks over at Deb. "Mom?"

My sister's face contorts like she's bitten into a lemon. "I wouldn't fuck your mom with your dick." 

"All right, then." The demon shakes his head. "Hope you folks got insurance."

I'm expecting him to go for me.

So is Astor.

The look on his face as each of us grab an arm, when he realizes too late the trap he's literally just leapt right into, is one of those moments of universal and complete satisfaction that however brief, I will take to my grave with a smile. Right before we slam him face-first into the floor.

I think he's starting to call me a rude name when I break his elbow. It's not as easy for me as it would be for Astor. Maybe that's part of the reason I take a vicious and vigorous pleasure in slamming my foot down on the joint, pulling his arm back against the blow. Astor's eyes widen at the wet crunch even as she bears down harder, preventing his escape. I wait for his howls to taper off into little gasps of pain.

"Your turn." I nod to Astor, looking down at his leg.

She hesitates for half a second before complying. The scream as his knee joins the condition of his elbow is not something she enjoys, from the look of it. Astor holds his struggling body down, her face a mask of stone, until he collapses once more.

"I've got a knife." I don't bother leaning down to whisper in his ear. He'd only start yelling again when I put pressure on the elbow.

Four quiet but raspy inhalations pass before he replies. "And?"

"And I don't have time to experiment with edged weapons." I stroke the flat of the blade along the surface of his scales; over his jaw, down the length of his quivering throat. "Though I'm sure I just have to go slow enough."

I feel his legs twitch. I don't bother applying more pressure.

"Or we could get out the pokey sticks." I nod to Astor, indicating that she should look down. She frowns at the back of his head as she tries to puzzle out my meaning.

"Those are ears, right?" I let the tip of the knife rest against the tiny opening on the side of his head. "Like the Perry Como song. I'll go left... she'll go right."

The demon's breathing intensifies before he gets it under control.

"And we can avoid your kinetic dampening field, or whatever. If we just..." My dispassionate discourse is tainted as a note of eagerness creeps in. "Take our time."

His entire body quivers like a plucked guitar string. I hear Deb breathing through her nose, quick and hard, as she stands over our prone and rigid bodies.

"What do you think?" I pose the question to Astor. Like I'm asking her to pick out a restaurant. "Want to see how long it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center?"

She stares me down. "Let him go."

I don't believe I heard her right.

"I mean it." Astor appears to be on the verge of releasing her grip. I'm not too concerned, given his condition. But I've learned from painful experience that it pays to be paranoid. Or at least overly cautious.

"Bad idea," I say. I try not to sound like I'm giving a lecture.

Astor merely raises one eyebrow. Then she lets go of the lizard's arm and stands up, brushing her hands on her jeans.

"You crawl -- or, limp. Or whatever --" Astor sighs. "Just get out of here. While you still have one good leg."

I can't believe I'm letting her do this. Then again, I probably don't have much choice. I nod to Deb, indicating my assent as I rise and back away.

Astor kneels and helps the demon to his feet, watching him gingerly test for stability. 

"And don't you ever forget it was a Slayer." Astor sounds decidedly less friendly. "That showed you mercy."

The demon nods with a pained grimace. I'm guessing he only wants to make a quick getaway, settle in somewhere and lick his wounds. I'm also hoping this will be the case. I almost don't want to kill him.

"Because some of us?" Astor stands on her toes, reaching up and tapping him on the forehead with the butt end of her stake. "Some of us aren't so nice."

"Look, I got the message. I mean..." The demon swallows, shifting on his uninjured leg.

Astor folds her arms over her chest. The effect is somewhat ruined by her having to glare up at him.

"Are you going to keep killing people for money?"

"Um..." I can almost see smoke pouring out of those tiny ear holes. "I can do other things."

Astor raises both eyebrows. "Non-violent things?"

The demon sighs.

"Look, you can't teach an old lizard new tricks. But I'll give it my best shot," he quickly adds. He holds up his uninjured hand as if to ward off a blow, turning it into a fist pump. "Rah rah, right? _Ganbatte!_"

We watch him shuffle away toward the exit. Astor shakes her head, turning to me with a disgruntled expression.

"Do I look like a weeb?"

"I don't know," I say. "What's a weeb?"

"Keep rolling your eyes when the grownups talk." Deb glares at Astor, reminding us of her presence. "It'll make you go blind."

Our eyes have nearly finished adjusting to the dim light as I retrieve my shotgun. I strain my hearing for signs of life above, but nothing seems amiss.

"You okay?" I hope I don't sound too patronizing.

"I'm fine." Astor shrugs off my concern. Battered and beaten she may be, but she also looks like she could go another fifteen rounds. When she smiles, it's decidedly grim and shaky.

Also triumphant.

"Come on."

  


* * *

  


I'm awake.

More thoughts follow. Feels like I'm swimming through mud. I know that I've been asleep. For...years? Too long.

As in it's been too long.

Since I've eaten.

A jolt runs through my body. I think it's my body. The thought of my soul brings a flood of jumbled and conflicting emotion. But no matter where my scrambled thoughts try to lead, it all comes back to the gnawing ache at the core of my being. It spreads out from a bottomless pit, screaming silent in its desperate search for sustenance.

Because something else is intruding upon my awareness. A smell so divine, so rich and complex and utterly right it makes me want to weep. The purest elixir, a fountain of youth with a bouquet like everything fine and marvelous. A dry aged steak, thoroughly marbled; the kiss of a fine single malt spreading over the tongue. From one perfectly roasted bean to the next, from coffee to chocolate and all over the spectrum. It's all there: Every orgasm, every answer to every mystery. Close enough to overwhelm my newly sensitive nose with a torrent of information so complex it threatens to burn out my brain. A fire hose I need to drink from, or die trying.

I reach out, blind with need.

Only to have it snatched away.

"Ah, ah..." A lilting female voice raised in mockery. "All good things."

I feel myself writhing in agony. From the sheer pain of hunger; of knowing what I've become, the grotesquerie that my appetite now demands.

I manage a single word.

"Why?" Darla echoes my feeble protest. My senses are flooded with the sublime aroma that emanates from the squirming sweetmeat being held overhead. Like a worm on a hook, wriggling just out of reach.

"His value is in his life." Darla sounds like she's explaining physics to a dog. "It's what you call...a precious commodity."

My stomach seizes up trying to expel its nonexistent contents. I could swear I feel blood pounding in my veins. Except I have no pulse and I think any minute now I will scream --

"Listen." Darla's hushed command somehow quiets my burgeoning panic. "You hear that?"

I do. A tiny, far-off drum, thumping away; giving off virtual heat and light. It's fascinating. And terrifying.

"So long as this little heart continues to beat?" Darla practically purrs, perfectly and utterly content. "We have what Dexter Morgan wants."

My unbeating heart sinks as her cold lips brush my cheek. 

"More than anything."

  


* * *

  


It still feels wrong to let my sister and stepdaughter lead the charge. Even if one of them is a Slayer. But apart from the soft skitter of bugs taking flight, the stairwell is empty.

Astor doesn't look down, ascending the stairs as nimble and sure-footed as a mountain goat. I follow behind, noting the rising tension in the set of Deb's shoulders, her increasingly haphazard movements. An occasional pile of garbage indicates equal representation between fast food and junk food on the part of the transient crowd. The faint odor of stale urine is thankfully fading as we climb higher. Probably most visitors are too drunk or lazy to bother.

The window in the door at the top is a match for the one we entered down below. Except this time, I can see what's on the other side: An ocean of flickering light, illuminating near the entirety of unoccupied space. A single figure crouches on the floor at the center, huddled in a heap.

I recognize the shirt.

Astor's waiting for me. I imagine if I wait too long, she'd be going in anyway. I can't say I blame her.

I scan the remainder of the room. Not easy, from this angle. And the darkness on the perimeter could hold any number of vampires. I've seen these things melt into shadow, vanish and attack faster than a housecat in heat. As Vince Masuka might say.

I crack the door for Deb and Astor to slip through, bringing up the rear. It's weirdly comforting how easily I cover Deb's blind spots, just like before; her mirror image on defense, as we advance into the circle of light. All the while the shadows remain just that.

We're ten feet away. I see now the trembling in Lumen's shoulders, the critical tension all throughout her body. A smudge of red adorns her right sleeve.

I have to risk it. Saying her name, aloud. Except Lumen responds with a whimper; a groan of suffering she immediately fights to pull back inside, struggling to contain her grief rather than allow it full voice.

Astor hisses my own name. Deb mumbles something about male armadillo genitalia.

The three of us fall back. Drawing closer together, banding against the pair of figures now emerging from the shadows to stand on either side of Lumen. They couldn't be more different, but everything I've seen and heard confirms their reputation. For a century and a half, these two and their boy toys laid waste to all of Europe. And would probably still be doing it, if the fates hadn't intervened.

_Drusilla._ Ruffles and silk, ebon and crimson. Mad as Cassandra, equally fated to forever go unheeded.

_Darla._ My dear departed Rita's somehow twin; having learned of the uncanny resemblance, now taking full advantage to milk it dry for her own amusement. Cruel and sly beyond imagining.

No more hired muscle.

Time for the final boss.

"I wouldn't advise the use of those..." Darla raises one eyebrow, staring down our pair of double barrels. "Impressive weapons."

"Wouldn't dream of it." I offer a nod of acknowledgement. "Not with you holding onto my son."

Harrison blinks and cranes his neck, staring around at the mass of candles. It seems a thousand points of light are reflected in his eyes. At least he doesn't seem too unhappy.

"Oh, we're getting on splendidly." Darla chuckles, giving him an affectionate bounce. "Aren't we, sweetie?"

Another groan issues from Lumen. She grinds her fists into the floor, rocking gently back and forth.

"You have something I want." I lower the barrel of the shotgun, leaving it at the ready. "I figure I must have something you want."

"You think?" Darla chuckles at my foolishness. "Oh, so many things. Besides the obvious."

"I gave at the office." I don't like the hungry eye she's directing toward my throat. Neither apparently does my sister, who looks more than ready to take Darla's head off. Very literally.

"You thought the police would take care of Dana for you?" I relish Darla's look of surprise. "You were wrong."

Darla's clearly been practicing her Rita smile. "I never put all my eggs in one basket."

Her frank dismissal rings true. Whatever scheme is being concocted here, we shouldn't be relying on the cavalry to come to our rescue. Dru continues to hum and sway on the balls of her feet, seemingly oblivious.

"I want my son," I state. It helps to be explicit about these things.

"And I'd like a permanent eclipse." Darla has this look of amazement about her. That a mere human should dare to presume. "Among other things."

I continue to stall for time. "Such as?"

"Let's start with you." Darla's cheerful smile is only skin deep. "And your... lovely family."

"Get your own." Deb's practically spitting with rage. Her weapon trembles in her grasp, trained just below her target's knees. I don't bother pointing out that this puts Lumen almost directly in her line of fire.

"It's nothing more than you deserve!" Darla spits back. Her fury is truly a sight to behold. "Thinking you can just waltz right in? Take up space in my head?"

"I don't control your thoughts." I frown. "That sounds... kind of crazy."

Darla heaves an overly dramatic sigh.

"It's all right. I've been here before." She gazes fondly down at Harrison in her arms. "It's an easy fix."

"Grandmother always gets cranky when her tummy rumbles." Drusilla sighs in delirious anticipation. "Like a big, bad --"

"Dru!" Darla glares at her partner before plastering on a saccharine smile.

"I've got an easy fix for you," Astor declares. Even flanked by two taller adults, she exudes pure menace and intent. "It's called a stake."

"Oh, you are a feisty one." Darla purses her lips, regarding Astor with relish. "I'm almost tempted to save you from yourself."

"Don't do me any favors," Astor growls. Darla shakes her head.

"Much as I'd love to see you get the spanking you so richly deserve -- Dru just won't be herself again." Darla sighs, her disgust at her partner's dilettante dabbling clearly evident. "Not without a new plaything."

"Oh God..." Astor's whispered prayer slides over the surface of my awareness. I dimly hear the sound of Deb, swearing up the mother of all tropical storms. Even this fails to make an impact on me compared to what I'm seeing before me. Like a horrible truth that I've known all along.

Drusilla has twined her fingers into Lumen's hair, forcing her upright, pulling her back to be pinned on display. Just like Vince in Deb's apartment. But apart from the glazed look in his eyes, Vince seemed more or less normal. Whereas the stunning and elaborate presentation now on display took hours of patient labor; the pale and anguished face made up like a painted doll, the level of makeup only slightly less than outright garish. The overall effect is to heighten and accentuate the crushing depths of pure despair in those sunken, bloodshot eyes.

"Let her go." I hardly recognize my own voice. "Both of them."

"Or what?" Darla doesn't wait for an answer. "No, Dexter. You can't bluff with an empty hand."

"Mummy's very cross," Drusilla adds. She beams down at Lumen. "I think she's jealous."

"She's not my mother." All emotion has fled from Astor. She stands immobile, facing vampires and victims; her adolescent body a living bulwark, her very purpose to defend our weaker mortal flesh. In that moment, I'd follow her into hell itself.

"Dex?" Deb hasn't moved, shotgun trained on the soft roundness of Darla's knees. The floral dress is just short enough to show them off to stunning effect.

"It is way past his bedtime," Deb continues. Her eyes are fixed on Darla; on my son, blissfully unaware of the potentially fatal proceedings. "And my trigger finger's getting awful itchy."

"Let her go." I say it louder. But Astor's hand is on my arm.

"Dexter."

Her voice is thick with emotion. Her tragic stare fixed on Lumen, a virtual prisoner at the end of Dru's leash.

"Bad idea."

I hear a hiss of inward breath from Deb. My own brain is a jumble, the slow chill of realization settling into the core of my bones as I put two and two and two together. 

"It's okay." Lumen's face is streaked with tears, her running mascara stained with hints of burgundy. Her smile is tentative, intended to reassure. "I feel better now."

I feel a lance of pain as Astor grips my arm. Deb is mumbling to herself, one long and unending string of her finest and foulest curses.

The mask of bravery slips, as Lumen's voice sinks to a terrified whisper. "But I'm so hungry..."

My mind is blank. White out.

"Dexter!"

I realize Astor is still holding onto me.

I wrestle myself into submission, shake her hand loose with a snarl. A red haze is descending over my sight. I may be having a cerebrovascular event. 

"Tried to take your mummy's place." Drusilla delivers this taunt to Astor with a smug satisfaction. "If I were you?"

She pulls her captive's head back further. Exposing the throat, as Lumen's wide and wild eyes dart frantically among us.

"I'd teach her a lesson."

Astor bows her head.

For less than a second.

"Piss off."

Dru blinks, confounded. "Beg your pardon?"

"You can't touch me," Astor declares. I believe it. Her solid stance, the steel in her tone, show that she's already been through the crucible. This is a test she can easily pass. With flying colors.

Dru's shoulders slump, and she shakes her head.

"Always the good who die young." The thickly accented pouting holds a note of regret. "You'd have been a far better companion for Miss Edith."

"Try to be happy with what you have." Darla smiles through her teeth before settling back into something that resembles actual affection. "I certainly am."

Lumen raises her head. Her eyes are vacant, staring blindly forward. I see her shiver as Darla leans down to give Harrison a sniff. It's a long and sensual one punctuated by a moan of pleasure as she pulls away, eyelashes fluttering before she regains control.

"I do adore babies." Darla's angelic smile speaks of untold wickedness to come. "I could just --"

She pauses and shakes her head.

"You know, I'm having a devil of a time." Darla regards me in all her innocence. Coquettish; meek and mild. For a split second, I believe the lie. "What _is_ the phrase again?"

"You don't have all night," I remind her. 

"I have all the time I need. He's not that big." Darla gives Harrison another sniff, staring me down. "Yet."

"You fucking bitch." Deb almost can't get the words out. I'm amazed her trigger discipline hasn't failed.

"But I'm not selfish," Darla continues. She smiles down at Harrison as he stares quizzically back up at her. "There's more than enough to go around."

I look on with cold evaluation. Deb and Astor with undisguised horror, as Lumen slowly turns to gaze at my son. Her painted face is wracked with bloodlust and tortorous self-loathing.

"I won't." Lumen's ragged whisper is barely audible. Darla merely smiles.

"You wouldn't be the first to try." Darla offers this sympathy with a cynical twist of her lips. "Believe me. It won't last."

"Then I'll kill myself." Lumen seems to gather strength from this notion. "Walk out in the sun. That -- that'll do it." She stumbles to a halt. Nearly breaking down, as she turns her tear-stained face to mine. "Right?"

Astor's non-stake hand is clamped tight over her mouth. When she removes it, her jaw looks tight enough to grind all her teeth to powder.

"Brave words," Dru notes.

"Noble," Darla agrees. She kneels beside Lumen, glancing slyly over at me from the corner of her eye. A mischievous girlfriend dispensing romantic advice. "But wouldn't you rather someone else did the dirty deed?"

Lumen stares up at me in stricken realization. Her silent pleading is as clear as day.

"I won't." I shake my head. "Not if she won't."

"Then you're a fool!" Darla snaps. She looks profoundly disgusted. "God! What is it with you bloody white knights and your self-destructive naivete?"

"She doesn't fit the Code." I know it means nothing to this woman. But it's all I've got. "Not yet."

"It's only a matter of time." Darla's anger is cold, couched in ironclad certainty. "And the life she spills will be on your hands. Can you live with that?"

I can't help but sound fatalistic. "I live with worse."

Her anger disappears. Transformed into a deathly calm.

"Indeed you will."

The next few seconds are chaos.

The first thing is the boom. A deafening hollow crack that splits the air. Darla's head snaps back, her neck twisted round as if she's been slapped by a giant right hand.

Drusilla howls, clutching at her breast. All I can see is Harrison. Falling away from Darla's suddenly less than stable grasp, headed straight for the floor.

Harrison lands on his butt with a resounding smack, mouth falling open in an O of surprise. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with cry power.

It turns to a tiny grunt as Lumen dives in, grabbing him up and scrambling away. She stands at the outer edge of the candles, clutching Harrison tight to her chest, eyes darting back and forth between the rest of us.

I realize what's happened. Astor had liberated the 8-ball from the pool table at Mike's Tavern along with the cue. And from the look of things, has just fired it off at line drive speed and with pinpoint precision, aimed straight at the vampire's skull.

A gruesome grinding sound grates on my eardrums. Darla's head is swiveling back around, settling into place. Blood runs down her forehead, streaming into her eyes, outlining her bared teeth. For one horrible moment she looks like Rita, resurrected, driven by rage.

Her face shifts and blurs. All the while smiling, as teeth extend like razors.

"Let's see how long I can make you regret that."

And Astor launches into battle.

With a mighty roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't seen Black Panther, but someone commented privately on the lizard demon's gimmick and its resemblance to T'Challa's armor. After watching the clip where they demonstrate his new suit, I can say that my notion is more of a real-time reflection than absorption for later distribution. Truly, there is nothing new under the sun.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the action. All the drama. For all the marbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter has been planned for some time, with the basic ideas being set in place from the start. But the next and final chapter -- which as you may have guessed will be denouement -- has been mostly written recently and with no prior planning whatsoever. Again, I find myself more pleased than ever with the results, especially the ending. I hope you are as well.
> 
> * * *

Unbeknownst to any of us, Faith had been helping Dana during this entire time in her escape and evade against the men and women of Miami Metro. I was also unaware that Faith was doing this in complete opposition to both her own previous judgment and everything she thought Buffy would have wanted. Apparently this girl's opinion is very important to Faith, and since that's a never-ending topic on its own I'll just say that the only reason I bring it up is to try and forestall the inevitable criticism. Because if you didn't know that Faith and Dana were already on their way to us, you might well accuse me of the classic _deus ex machina_.

If only. If I could plan my life to any degree of certainty, I'd be God. But like Faith and my sister, most of this wasn't planned. It just... happened. Is still happening, as I write these words.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

  


* * *

  


Astor is beyond compare. On a whole new level of superlative grace and skill; a tiny dancer, dealing out death as though it were her birthright. Already her vampire foes have gone from being supremely confident to somewhat concerned, then hard pressed. By the look of it, they're currently crossing the line into slightly overwhelmed.

Not to say that she's winning. From what I can tell, Astor is running on pure instinct and high emotion. At some point her training is going to go out the window. All it takes is one mistake. Against someone who's been around over four hundred years, that's more than enough.

Despite her costuming as a soft-spoken housewife, Darla cuts a menacing figure. The entire front of her dress is spattered like a Steadman painting from the seemingly never-ending blood that continues to drip from her snarling face. Her fighting style is utilitarian, a complete lack of style with zero flashy moves. Drusilla weaves like water, far less predictable in her movements, her painted black fingernails poised to plunge in deep somewhere painful.

Already since the battle first broke out, the three of them have extinguished a good few dozen candles in the process just by moving around. Astor has enough experience under her belt that she's conserving her energy, striving to make the most of dwindling reserves. But her adversaries are as fresh as daisies, bloated like ticks from feasting on my girlfriend.

Speaking of which.

By unspoken agreement, Deb and I have begun circling around the fight, moving in opposite directions. Lumen seems rooted to the spot. She holds Harrison like her own flesh and blood, as though his fragile form were made of glass. Her nose is buried in his tousled hair, her eyes flicking back and forth between the battle, my sister and me.

We're inching nearer to her with every step. As sure as the sunrise, about to close the gap.

Naturally, that's when Astor slips. Or maybe overextends herself like the demon we just fought. Either way, her enemies don't hesitate when handed a perfect opportunity. They simply seize her up by the arms and step back away from each other. Astor swears and thrashes in their grasp, blazing hellfire, throwing vicious kicks that land on empty air.

"I do hate to see a family divided." Darla's conversational tone doesn't work so well, given that she sounds like a normal person lifting a car. Without a jack.

Astor pauses in her struggle, breathing heavily. She still hasn't gone limp, holding herself rigid and upright in their cruel clutches. All her pain is within her eyes as she bites her lip to keep from crying out.

"That's better." Darla's warmth is quickly fled. "And now, I'm afraid I really must insist. Put your guns on the ground, and back away."

"Don't do it!" Astor yells. A gasp hisses between her teeth as Drusilla leans back and pulls harder.

"I never liked wings." Apart from the strain of physical effort, Dru sounds casually disappointed. "Too much gristle."

"No!" Deb holds up both hands and the shotgun, looking frantic.

"About time." Darla responds with a stunning and satisfied smile. She nods at Lumen, still standing petrified between us. "And are you ready to give up on this foolish sentiment?"

Lumen stares back as Harrison shifts in her grasp, trying to find a more optimal position to burrow in. I'm not sure if he's hiding or snuggling.

"Trust me -- you're really better off." Darla's voice is full of wisdom, hard earned by pain. She gazes at Lumen with something resembling pity. "These sorts of relationships? They never work out."

"And when it comes to crazy ex-girlfriends?" My sister hasn't lowered her weapon; the shining length of chrome still aimed at Darla's shapely kneecaps. "Don't believe the hype."

"Ah, yes." Darla looks and sounds like she could stand there holding Astor up all night. I could probably manage it for a while myself. "The sister."

"Lady justice," Dru breathes, with a giggle. "But oh, so blind..."

Deb seems to swell in my sight like a blimp about to go down in flames. I want to tell her to ignore the provocation. That psychological warfare is just one of the many ways these things weaken and cripple foes and food alike. But I only have eyes for Lumen. Once more suffering, because of me. 

"You'll have to forgive her for being biased." Deb's calm demeanor holds the concealed barb, delivered with her following words. "That'll happen when a Slayer steals your man."

Dru and Darla both swell in turn as my sister adds the smug poscript. "Twice."

Darla sucks in a huge breath of air. She reminds me of Harrison, about to start screaming. Except she lets it out again, in a low and weary sigh.

"Ancient history." Darla remains defiant. Brittle, yet unbowed. "I've made new and better memories."

"Like..." Astor inhales, but the resulting wince apparently shows this to be a bridge too far. She turns to stare at Darla with a tiny smile. "Like me going upside your head?"

"Don't forget the ex-boyfriend who set these two on fire," Deb chimes in. "Bet that was a real Benny Hill moment. And I only heard about it --"

"I will remove your spleen with my teeth!"

Darla's lips are pulled back in a crimson grimace, her eyes wide with fury, all scarlet in white. Astor swallows another cry of pain as the vampire's grip tightens further.

"Sing for me," Drusilla croons. "Songs without words..."

"And this is just the beginning." That singsong lilt practically shoves itself in our face, grinds our collective nose in it. The look in Darla's eye promises retribution from which death will be no respite.

"Because when we leave here?" Her voice drops as she leans in, staring Astor down like a delinquent forced to stand in the corner. "We are going straight to Orlando. To pay a call on your _real_ brother --"

Astor screams. Kicks up both legs, and flips over, still in their grasp.

It's just a partial reverse somersault, using the connection between them as leverage. But it adds that much more power to her kick, the sole of her boot coming near to full face contact. Darla manages to pull back at the last, but it weakens her grip; distracts her enough for Astor to slip loose on that side.

"You little monkey!" Drusilla barely holds on. She looks like a mad governess, ready to dispense dire discipline. "Scoop out your head with a custard spoon --"

An explosive blast cleaves the air. Dru lets out a shriek and lets go.

Deb's holding down the trigger, following her now rapidly moving target. Below the barrel the full capacity drum magazine rotates, advancing one shell at a time. Her ill-fated attempt on the lizard demon should have left her with thirty-one. At this rate, they won't last long.

I aim two feet left and add my weapon's voice to the chorus. Dru skids to a stop with a terrified squeak, clutching her voluminous skirts like she's crossing a puddle. Her eyes are round with shock, glued to the ragged crater abruptly sprouted in the floor.

Deb's empty drum gives off a loud click. After the sudden cease fire, it sounds muffled in my ears.

Astor has leapt up. Grabbed onto Darla, clawing at her face with desperate fingers.

The vampire staggers back, flailing away in blind retaliation before connecting with a solid right hook. Astor barely seems to notice as she draws back and brings down the hammer. Twice. Three --

Darla catches her fist, with a cruel smile.

The wagging finger of warning only makes the crack of a broken wrist that much more painful for the rest of us. I know for Astor it's bound to be worse. Instead of crying out she brings up her knee like a rocket, plants it dead center in Darla's chin. The vampire's head rocks back on her shoulders with an angry snarl.

"I changed my mind about that spanking." Darla bears down on the captured and fractured wrist, driving Astor down to one knee. "It sounds like the perfect way... to make you bleed."

"Yeah?" Astor's gasp of pain doesn't hide the fire in her eye. "Does that mean you're gonna kiss my --"

Darla roars like a wounded animal. Astor screams and falls to both knees; refusing to look away from her tormenter, even as the tears course down her cheeks.

My magazine is almost gone. I haven't been paying attention.

Deb runs in with desperate eyes, raising the butt of her shotgun. But Dru is upon her, pulling her away before she can bring it down on the back of Darla's head.

Darla flings Astor away and comes at me, darting from side to side like a striking cobra. I march forward, slamming my feet into the floor like I'm nailing them in, firing a shell with each step.

Empty.

A streak of flowers fills my vision as her fist meets my face. It's a tiny, delicate fist that sends me sprawling, the shotgun sliding from my grasp. Even though I'm out of ammo, I find this troubling. It's no knife, but holding it provides an undeniable sense of security.

That tiny delicate hand grabs my shoulder, flips me onto my back. Darla straddles me, pinning me down as her other hand pulls up my shirt. Her fingers trail down my stomach.

"Do you doubt me, Thomas?"

A flaming hot spike stabs deep in my side. Darla twists her index finger back and forth, trying to widen the puncture wound. I'm blinded by pain, choking on the scream locked deep in my throat. It tears loose as she yanks herself free. 

Darla seems in a state of apoplexy, grabbing me by the front of my shirt, hauling me into the air. I'm as helpless as a kitten. About to die.

"I'll skin you alive." Darla shivers with anticipation, a glint of saliva shining at the corner of that ruby-red Cupid's bow mouth. "Then turn you. To live, like that."

I can't breathe.

"Forever..."

We're running. She's running. Carrying me, like I'm nothing at all. The world wobbles, a documentary-style shaky cam.

My back meets a sheet of glass.

While both sides can be said to have lost in this encounter, it's debatable as to who came out worse. The glass is completely destroyed, near gone from its frame. A rain of debris cascades down the side of the building in a shower of high-pitched tinkling, further breakage of the larger pieces.

The back of my head is wet. The inside of my shirt. My fingers bleeding, where I tried to hold on as I went through the window.

I dangle in the air. Three stories up, in the grip of a woman half my size.

Something collides with Darla, jars her like a charging bull. Her grip on me never wavers. But the fabric of my shirt is starting to tear; my trapped and hapless body threatening to slip free.

"Goodbye, Dexter Morgan."

I hear the evil smile. My bloody fingers reach for the remains of the window frame. For her eyes, to remove them by hand.

"I'll see you in hell."

  


* * *

  


When it comes to awkward and divisive subjects, even a person as lacking in the social graces as myself can tell you that faith -- in general, not the Slayer -- has always been at the top of the list. Although according to Faith, most people who know her would probably put her there too.

All I know is that until I dusted my first vampire, I'd never experienced a single moment in my life that could be credibly interpreted as evidence of the supernatural. Of anything more than this material world. Much of what I'd seen could be explained away by science, albeit currently unknown. Certainly in their way, vampires were concrete proof of life after death. But any hint of something beyond this mortal existence remained elusive, more ephemeral than Harry's ghost.

Again: _Deus ex machina._

I'm told there are alternate dimensions; that the beings we call demons have their origins in those far-flung realms. That others, far more dangerous and shrouded in mystery, exist altogether outside what we consider traditional space. As countless have noted, such beings would naturally regard us as little more than ants.

When they see an anthill, some boys reach for a magnifying glass. Others will sit and watch for hours, mesmerized by the workings of an alien society. And some try to help.

It doesn't always work out. Most of us have heard the story of the baby bird trying to hatch from its egg. A human child saw, and his heart was moved by the creature's plight. So he gently cracked the shell, careful not to injure the bird. Except those tiny muscles needed to struggle, to develop naturally. When the wet and shivering newborn emerged, it was too weak to survive, and soon expired.

All these diverse and inscrutable entities? They do, in fact, exist.

I don't know about hell, and even less about heaven. But I know what I've seen. And I recognize power when I see it.

Most people who deal in these affairs have a name for these things.

They call them _the powers that be._

  


* * *

  


A wordless shriek splits the air. Along with my eardrums.

I'm still dangling. But not for long, as Darla's grip begins to fall away. Followed by myself, as gravity takes over.

I catch myself on the ledge of the window. I cry out as glass bites into my palms, digging my sneakers into the outside wall in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure.

Darla writhes above me. Contorting and shaking like she's been struck by lightning.

I hear the thunder of battle from inside; Astor swearing and spitting like a rabid wildcat. Drusilla's heart-rending scream that preceded my fall has now turned to a series of them. From the sound of it, Astor is working her over like a misbehaving heavy bag.

Soft hands clutch mine. I look up into blindly staring eyes.

"Dexter?"

That voice.

That look.

Her blood-smeared face transforms before my eyes. The raised bone ridges melting away, as her shock of recognition becomes overwhelming joy.

"Oh my God --" She looks like she's about to hug me. Then she looks down, sees my dangling lower half.

She lets out a little scream of surprise. Then I feel her delicate hands grab me under both armpits. They haul me up like a child, back inside the building.

My legs are threatening to collapse underneath as I'm dragged away from the window. From somewhere, I summon the strength to stand.

"Dexter..."

We stand facing one another. Our hands on each other's shoulders.

Drusilla wails in defeat as Astor forces her to her knees, holding her from behind in a choke. It's less effective on a vampire. Dru ignores her captor, her gaze fixed upon Darla in a look of utter dismay.

Astor stares at both of us with increasing apprehension. Lumen watches from across the remaining sea of candles; her eyes glittering in the light as she holds onto Harrison like a lifeline.

Darla's trembling fingers rise, ghosting over the growing stubble on my chin. Emotion seems to overwhelm her, choking back the words on her lips.

I'm still very confused. But something in those eyes gives me pause.

Her gaze falls to my wounded hands, and a sob catches in her throat. She grabs them up -- gently -- and holds them to her bowed forehead, seemingly overcome.

"Watch it." Astor's voice is also trembling. But I don't feel a tongue licking up whatever it can reach. The quivering in her body is not the lust of primal hunger, barely restrained. It's the profound relief and happiness of the lost soul, finally coming home.

Darla suddenly raises her head to send an angry stare at the ceiling. Even with the anger, it still doesn't look like her.

"This is not over!" She seems to direct this outburst at some invisible presence. Like a recalcitrant child, who thinks she's gotten away with it.

"Sorry." She turns back with an air of embarrassment and resigned annoyance. "They think they're doing me a favor."

My brain feels light inside my head.

"And they are," she continues. She looks ready to choke up again. "Oh, God..."

All the air goes out of my lungs. I hear Astor yell something. I can't speak, as my weakening arms try to fight back.

"Oh my God!" Darla sounds more panicked than ever as she releases me from her vampire-powered hug. "I'm so sorry! Dexter! Are you --"

"What --" I sound like a croaking frog. So thirsty I'm tempted by my own blood on my hands.

"I tried so hard."

Darla holds me upright, gazing into my eyes. With a level of devotion, of indescribable love, that my befuddled brain is finding more difficult to deny by the moment.

"But I could only watch. And then --" Darla shakes her head. "I don't know. It felt like... like something was making a bet. Like they were betting on me. On -- on us."

Tears mingle with blood on her face as she looks back up. 

"I only wanted to see you again."

I can't say it. Can't even think it.

Is this real?

I say her name and her face crumbles like mine. Her scent isn't quite the same. But the feel of her arms encircling my battered and beaten torso, the joyful sob as she sinks into my chest, sends the biggest shock yet through my system. I'm starting to tremble as I clutch her body to mine, with all my feeble human strength.

The last time I felt this way, I'd just murdered a stranger in a public bathroom. Except this is different. Because instead of misery and rage, this is living light. It sweeps away the shadows, revealing all with perfect clarity.

Somehow I swallow the crazed laugh. A barking sob, that threatens to undo me.

I can't let her go. But I force myself to pull away. Just enough to see her face.

I don't know how.

But I know who this is.

"I know I can't stay."

A fist grabs my heart, squeezing just enough to hurt. I see her looking at the rest of the room, her solemn face a study in contrast.

Lumen still hasn't moved. She stands there holding Harrison, staring at the two of us like we've just run a tree trunk through her heart.

Astor has gone beyond apprehension. Her eyes never leave Darla as she releases Drusilla and kicks her in the back, sends her sprawling on the floor.

Dru raises her head with another wail, but Astor ignores her fallen foe. I can see the tearing indecision on her face. The little girl wanting only to run to her mother's side. And the Slayer; itself part demon, hyper aware of vampiric physical reality. The desperate need to believe this has to be some kind of trick. As for Deb, she looks completely crazed; driven round the bend and off the cliff, into the deep and down.

Her paranoid gaze slides left as Lumen shuffles forward, on a direct approach for me. And --

_(say it)_

Rita looks ready to weep again at the sight of her baby boy. Harrison sucks his thumb and stares back at her from Lumen's arms. She reaches out, as if to take him, before appearing to reconsider.

Lumen trembles as Rita slowly walks up to her; holds out one hand to stroke her son's rosy cheek, taking him by the chin and tilting slightly. He gazes up at her, patiently waiting for something to happen.

Rita's eyes are moist as she lifts her head, sending a frank and open gaze at Lumen. "Thank you."

Lumen's kohl-rimmed eyes widen. Like the first time she thought Harrison called her _mama_.

"Are you sure --"

"I trust you." Rita's smile fades, becoming serious. "I know it won't be easy."

Lumen swallows. Her knuckles are white with tension, but it's all directed inward. Harrison appears perfectly comfortable.

Rita smiles again. "But I have faith in you."

Lumen merely nods. Tears blossom in her own eyes as she backs away, until she nearly bumps into Astor. She whirls about, doing her best to hold onto Harrison while defending against a possible staking.

Astor's expression is a mask of neutrality as she stares at Lumen. She looks over at Rita, standing next to me, and the mask wavers.

"It's okay," Lumen says.

"No." Astor leans in and kisses Harrison on the top of his head. "It's not."

I watch as she turns and walks toward us. Stumbles and catches herself, still favoring her injured foot. She stops maybe four feet from me, forcing herself to remain upright. Her desperation is only outmatched by her despair.

"Sweetie -- it's okay." Rita's understanding is filled with the soft glow of love, as well as a subtle discomfort. "This body -- it's not a fan. I can tell."

As many times as I've heard someone described as not knowing whether to laugh or cry, I don't think I've ever seen it more heartbreakingly illustrated. Astor clutches her stake and stares at the post-modern spattered dress, its garden of blooming color beneath.

"But it's okay." Again nothing less than the Rita I remember, striving to reassure and chase away her childrens' fears. "You've got your own path now."

Astor hugs herself with all her might. Unable to hold back the tears. I see her forcing down her desire to abandon all reason. To run to her mother, hold tight with all her might and never let go.

"I know." Rita waits for Astor to regain control of her hiccups. Then simply nods. Gazing at her daughter, on the cusp of womanhood, with all of her love.

"And you."

Her eyes are full of wonder as she turns. At me. At herself.

"All those lies...." 

"I'm sorry." It sounds horrible. But I had to say it.

She glances down at the blood on her dress as if just now noticing. Looks back up at me with a shy, slightly sheepish air.

I can only stand there. I watch as Rita reaches up again, holds her hand to the side of my rapidly bruising face.

"I forgive you."

My eyes sting as I bow my head. Her lips brush my fevered brow in a caress of benediction.

"But you know what you have to do."

I look up. She holds my gaze, demanding fealty. Or at least honesty.

"No more lies."

My legs threaten to buckle as I part my parched and cracking lips. "I swear."

Astor sniffles, and coughs. "Language."

I turn my baffled gaze upon her before realizing Rita's just done the same. It's good for a mutual chuckle. All too brief.

"I love you, baby." Rita nods. "Never forget."

She turns back to me. For the first time, looking truly sad.

"But you need to move away."

I blink.

"I have to go now."

Claws rip through the air, a resounding hiss filling my ears as I stumble back. I hear Astor shout as the face of loveliness transforms once more, possessed with rage heretofore unprecedented. At the sheer audacity of my presumption. At the presence of humanity, however brief, defiling her undead flesh.

At herself.

For being made to _feel_.

"You -- _filthy_ \--"

Deb and Astor are pulling a struggling Darla off of me. Good thing. I'm half down on the floor, and I've lost blood. Enough to feel light headed.

Darla's intensifying struggles abruptly freeze. The point of Astor's stake comes to rest, sinking in just left of the vampire's exposed cleavage.

Drusilla's pathetic moans haven't stopped. At least they're quiet. Astor looks more than ready and willing to stake them both. I don't doubt Deb feels the same. And yet something in Darla seems deserving of pity, or at least empathy. I get the sense that under all that fury, her world has been shaken to its core.

Darla makes as if to lunge at me. Drusilla hurls herself into the pile of bodies with a hysterical shriek, adding her grasp to Deb and Astor's. Like she's trying to prevent her partner from going after the humans in a doomed kamikaze attack.

"You're done here," I say. I think that sounded good. Reasonably confident. "Don't let the sun set on you again in Miami."

The two evil vampires pause, giving me a puzzled look. A warm trickle run downs my calf and into my shoe.

"You know what I mean." I hold Darla's unwilling gaze, as the fullness of her loss begins to sink in. "Now get."

"And what makes you think this is over?" All of Darla's rage has gone ice cold. "What makes you think I won't go after your precious Cody the minute your back is --"

"Because if I thought you were stupid enough to do that?" Astor sounds perfectly calm. "You'd already be dead."

Darla sputters to a halt. She turns and stares down at the impudent child who dares threaten her ancient immortal self.

I'm about to move when more glass shatters.

Having just been thrown through a window, I react accordingly. At the same time I remember the Molotov cocktails that almost destroyed my apartment and killed us all. It's a bit of a PTSD moment.

But it's not bottles that have just been thrown into the room. Just rocks, that come to rest a few feet away.

Then come the bottles.

The reaction doesn't make any sense. Not with no flame to be seen, no heat or light. But Darla and Drusilla have dived in opposite directions, shattering our eardrums with their screams. Smoke billows from their clothes and exposed skin, sizzling like bacon in cast iron.

"What does that make us?" Faith's head pops up in the window I almost got thrown from. Deb gapes as the Slayer flips up and somersaults inside, making a graceful three-point landing.

Dana strides out of the shadows and comes to a halt, striking a firm salute. "Big damn heroes, sir!"

I don't think I've ever seen vampires skedaddle quite this fast. Darla heads for the stairwell, the echo of clattering footsteps fading away. Drusilla's gone the other way, flinging herself through one of the few windows still in one piece. 

Silence descends as I look around the circle. Faith and Dana both wear smirks of varying intensity, like they do this sort of thing on a regular basis. Lumen appears to be trying to sink into the floor. Possibly taking Harrison with her. And Deb apparently can't decide whether to run up and kiss Faith or punch her.

"Look at you." Astor sounds on the verge of tears again as she stares at me. She wipes away a sniffle and starts tearing strips off my shirt, binding my hands with makeshift bandages.

Deb clears her throat. "What --"

"Turned the tables." Dana grins in unabashed victory.

"Little sister here had herself a gang of bad guys." Faith claps her partner on the shoulder. "All set to take out. 'Til Darla sicced the cops on her."

Dana scoffs. "Thinking in two dimensions."

"Fucking Andrew," Faith mumbles. I don't ask who Andrew is. Or who he might be fucking.

Deb frowns, trying to put the pieces together. "So you --"

"Led the cops right to 'em." Faith's grin is dangerous and satisfied, just short of hands-on execution. She nods to Deb. "So your team gets the credit --"

"And no blood shed," Dana chimes in.

Deb looks more than slightly dubious as she glances over at Dana. "What about you?"

"Me?" Dana blinks, projecting innocence without affect. "I'm just a girl."

"Right." Faith nods. "Probably had help with the killin' from all those big strong guys."

Deb slowly shakes her head.

"Or they tried to pin it on her poor little self." Faith gives Deb a shrug. "Anything to avoid responsibility, right?"

Deb bites her lip, looking more and more troubled.

"Hey." Faith takes a step and pauses. Her expression is guarded as she walks slowly over to my sister. "You okay?"

Deb looks back at the Slayer and lets out a shaky laugh.

Then she bursts into tears.

"Oh, shit." Faith looks incredibly ill at ease. Her arms are hesitant, almost clumsy as they rise to wrap around a sobbing Deb. "Hey. Hey now..."

My own mind is in a turmoil, at all levels. I stand there watching them for some amount of time. Until an outside source of tension intrudes.

I look over to find Astor and Dana, both staring at Lumen. She returns their scrutiny with open defiance, cradling a sleeping and oblivious Harrison to her bosom. Daring them to make a move.

It may be the blood loss talking. And I don't mean to discount any of the life-changing events we've been through.

But all I can think is one thing.

_This could get ugly._


	21. Conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denouement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning this ending long before I came up with any sequel ideas. Now that I'm having those, I hope you'll see the results very soon. In the meantime, as always:
> 
> Share, and enjoy.
> 
> PS: Actual sex scene, for the first time. More R than X by today's standards, but in this case, really not the point.
> 
> PPS: It's real: Tacticalbabygear dot com. I receive no benefit for this mention other than my own enjoyment.
> 
> * * *

The good news is that Darla avoided any major organs. The bad news is that this was on purpose. When your goal is pain, premature death is the end of all your fun. I submit to the indignities of an emergency room, marveling at the clamor of sensation as they scrape and flush and debride. Astor hovers nearby, ready to inflict her own punishment should anyone try to provide me with substandard healthcare.

The nurse fixes me with a skeptical eyebrow. "And what happened to you?"

I offer a shrug. "I fell."

"You fell," she repeats. I see her eyeing the splint on Astor's wrist. I'm already anticipating a mandatory police report.

Astor folds her arms, with a rise of her own eyebrow. "I helped him up."

The waiting room is nearly deserted by the time we're discharged. My sister is half asleep, leaning on Faith, propped up on her shoulder. Surprisingly, Lumen has allowed Harrison out of her arms. He and Dana are sitting at the table playing with an assortment of puzzles from jigsaws to three-dimensional sculptures. Harrison is struggling with one of the latter, trying to slide a wooden disc up and over a wire track as Dana murmurs quiet encouragement. Lumen sits by herself and watches, grimacing every time she sips from her paper cup of hospital coffee.

It's a nice picture, but the atmosphere seems decidedly more tense on the ride back. It doesn't help that Faith is driving. With my hands nearly punctured through, I really don't feel up to it. For whatever reason, Deb doesn't seem too keen on the notion either.

"Never do this." Faith directs this advice to Astor, siting up front beside her. I keep forgetting this girl always calls shotgun.

"I know." Astor rolls her eyes, raising her right hand. It's a little stiff with her broken wrist set in a brace. "I solemnly swear never to drive without a license."

"Good girl." Faith nods in approval.

"Unless some little old lady is dying and I have to get her to the hospital."

Faith leans back with her elbow out the window, enjoying the breeze. "Works for me." 

I'm squashed up against Deb in the back, who looks like she'd rather be sitting with Faith. Harrison is happily violating the seat belt laws, taking up buffer space between Slayer and vampire. I see Dana lean over, whisper to Lumen.

"Don't worry."

Lumen doesn't look like she's taking this advice to heart.

"I --" She swallows, watching Harrison try to untangle the magic plastic snake. "I want to."

Dana looks down at him, then back up at Lumen. "But you're not." 

Lumen doesn't reply. She remains silent the rest of the way.

It's just after four when we pull up in front of Deb's apartment. It takes a minute for me to disembark. Even Astor, younger than all of us and stronger than most, is moving a little stiffly.

Faith helps me up the stairs and inside. Deb's suspicious glare follows all the way as Astor and Dana trail behind, giggling about something. Lumen is back to holding Harrison, who is once more glued to her shoulder, zonked out like a light. I'm starting to wonder if he's become permanently attached.

"So how about it?" Faith is addressing Deb. "Ain't like the old days."

"I don't know." Deb sounds decidedly torn. "What's that mean?"

Faith fishes a lanyard out of her shirt, showing Deb some sort of card inside. It looks like a hotel passkey.

Deb's eyes widen as she peers closer.

"See you plebs in the morning," Deb announces. "And don't get any fucking stains on my sheets."

"What's going on?" I ask. It's important to know these things.

"Hotel." Faith nods to Deb, who disappears into the bedroom. I hear her rummaging through her dresser.

"Are you sure?" I'd like to sit down. I just don't trust myself to stand up.

"I sprung for an upgrade." Faith looks moderately self-conscious as she hands the card over for my inspection.

"Executive suite." I admire the embossed logo and gold leaf trim. "Don't those have a private jacuzzi?"

Deb breezes past me, carrying an overnight bag. "Sayonara, suckheads."

There's still four of us remaining in a relatively small living room. Still, the noise now seems deafeningly quiet.

"I'll take the little couch." Astor breaks the silence with her announcement, looking at Dana. "You can have the other. It'll be like a slumber party."

"Right." Dana joins Astor in sending a sidelong glance at Lumen from the corner of the eye. A short and cynical laugh puffs from between the older girl's lips. "Hope you don't snore."

"What about Harrison?" Lumen looks profoundly lost. Even after scrubbing the makeup from her face, a pale glow seems to illuminate her skin. "Where would you --"

"We'll take him." Astor doesn't sound mean, or even suspicious. Merely guarded, as she waits to see how her offer will be received.

Lumen swallows. But she relinquishes her burden readily enough, looking appropriately conflicted. Her fingers caress his cheek and forehead before finally pulling back.

I try to send Astor silent thanks with my eyes alone. I don't know if it works. The look on her face as she turns away, joining Dana in making up a spot for Harrison, is the kind I haven't seen since she showed up at our old house with an abused friend and a stolen bottle of booze.

I limp my way to the bathroom. Personal hygiene is a real trick, especially without my premium model sonic toothbrush. My hands are stinging under the bandages by the time I emerge and I just want to fall over. I can hear the girls out in the living room, laughing and bonding over who knows what.

Lumen sits on the edge of the bed. She doesn't look up as I enter the room. Stripped to her tank top and underwear, she projects an aura of almost military toughness. As for me, my glass-filled sneakers are in the dumpster outside; my torn and bloody clothes exchanged for a plain white T-shirt and boxer shorts.

"Hey." I partially circumnavigate the bed, sit down on the far side. It's good to give people space.

"Hey." Her voice is subdued. Calm, without being flat.

"Let me know if you need anything." My words ring hollow in my ears. But Lumen merely nods once. Her back remains to me, her fingers gathering and bunching in the sheets. Not manic precisely, but definitely restless. Maybe nervous.

My spine is protesting and I have to stand up. It takes a moment to manage it without feeling dizzy. I hold onto the dresser, breathing slowly as I regain my equilibrium.

A whisper touch glides across my skin. Lumen stands behind me, one hand on my shoulder. She leans in, her cheek coming to rest against my aching and lacerated back.

"I remember what you told me," I say. I reach down and take her other hand, pressed to my stomach. She holds her fingers cupped over the bandaged puncture wound, as if shielding me from further attack. "About before...and after."

"And temporary insanity," Lumen whispers. The air she exhales is less than warm against my skin.

"We don't have to." I ignore her fingers creeping lower, tracing along the thin trail of hair, past the hem of my waistline. "We don't have to do anything you don't --"

Her lips plant a solid kiss on my shoulder blade, the wet of her mouth scouring the salt from my flesh. I remember when Lilah did this. Deb said that the gross English titty vampire was marking territory.

I'm on the verge of protesting. It turns to a moan as she pulls back my head, her other hand dipping inside my shorts. She fishes me out, already stiff and straining.

Just like the first time, I let her lead. What's unlike then is her new aggressive nature. Nothing so obvious as howling and snarling, clawing me to shreds. She doesn't try to cause me too much pain. But she's barely holding back, her strength more than apparent as she struggles to not break me. I twitch and writhe in her grasp, shuddering at the level of stimulation she's putting me through. Her tongue flicks at my nipples and my brain is about to short circuit.

She throws me down on the bed, leaps on to straddle me. Reaches down between us, pulling her underwear aside. All the while I hear her muttering, nonsense pornographic tripe like _there_ and _right there_ and _oh you fucker_. This last as she grabs my all too cooperative erection at the base, holding it steady as she squats over me. She wriggles and squirms, working herself downward, staring the whole time at our point of connection. She grits her teeth and shoves hard, taking the last bit with an audible groan.

She looks up at me. Shaky, but gleeful; baring her teeth in a triumphant grin.

Her teacup breasts are capped with little scarlet pencil erasers. I grab on and pull, very gently.

She moans and clamps down, rocking back and forth, grinding the swollen nub of her clitoris against my pelvic bone. With each forward motion she lifts further until nearly half my length is sliding free, her hips descending more forcefully with each stroke. She's grunting like a trapped animal, literally impaling herself upon me, face screwed up like she's being stabbed.

Her hands grip my shoulders but rather than supporting herself, it feels like she's pinning me down. I can't rise up. Can't pull her to me without hurting her. 

Can't kiss her like I want to.

The wound in my side is leaking. I feel it seep through the bandage from the force of her frantic posting. She stares down at the growing stain, spreading across the fabric.

She slams down on me harder still. Bites down on her hand, to muffle her own screams. A gush of liquid drenches my pelvis and Deb's bedsheets. Lumen moves with complete abandon, her increasingly slippery flesh gripping me like a fist.

My body takes her pleasure as permission. I grab her hips with cruel force and strain with all my might, buried to the root, spurting out life in the slick of her dead embrace. She shudders and squeals atop me, her contracting muscles milking out my final spasms.

Our bodies slowly come to rest. The wound in my side throbs and I'm gasping for air, Lumen slightly less so. Her quivering buttocks settle on my thighs. The cool temperature is odd, but not unpleasant.

I'm not sure if I saw her other face there. At the moment of little death.

I let out a grunt of pain as she rolls off of me. It turns to a sound of surprise as I slip free from inside her, still semi hard. She lays on her side, facing away, the curve of her hindquarters an elegant moon. Her breath hitches in her throat.

I'm not sure if she's going to cry. I also wonder what's up with that. If vampires don't need oxygen.

I do the only thing I can think of.

She quivers as I spoon up against her, draping my arm over her hips. My hand traces the slight swell of her belly. For a moment I think she'll move away, or tell me to move.

She doesn't exactly relax. It feels like a sort of silent consent.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. For what, I'm not sure.

Her body is cold and unmoving. But I feel her hand on mine.

"Me too."

I fall asleep.

I dare to dream.

  


* * *

  


The smell of coffee rouses me from slumber. The bed is empty. I'm looking around the room when a hand pops up to my left, wearing a sock like a glove.

"Hey there." 

I turn around to see a thick band of late morning sun laid across the mattress.

"Sorry." I scramble to my feet as quickly as my injuries allow, adjusting the curtains. Purple disco balls dance behind my eyeballs as my sight adjusts.

"Thanks." Lumen peeks over the edge of the bed with a sigh of relief. She crawls back up and stretches out with a luxurious purr, gloriously nude.

I slide back in and pull her close. She wraps around me like a child's security blanket, her cheek upon my chest.

"Deb and Faith are back." It comes out slightly muffled as she says this into my pectoral muscle. "They brought breakfast."

"Oh?" I lean down and kiss the top of her head. She turns to examine me, with an air of mild suspicion.

"I guess they filled up a grocery bag at the continental buffet." Lumen settles back in, fingers running through the sparse hair over my stomach. "You should get out there before it's all gone."

"You too," I say. Lumen gives me a funny look.

"What for?"

"They stayed at the Yeev." I use the local name for it. "I've been there. They have chocolate croissants."

Lumen just stares at me.

"Oh." Now I remember. "Right."

"It's okay." Lumen's reassurance is a little too immediate. She hesitates, unsure how to proceed.

"So." I wonder if I've been reduced to monosyllables. "They..."

"Faith stuck her head in here about twenty minutes ago." Lumen frowns in recollection. "She was pretty cool about it. But I thought your sister was going to come running in here with a stake."

"Oh."

"And not medium rare." She buries her face in my chest, inhaling deeply of my scent.

My attempt at encouragement can't help sounding slightly hesitant. "Ready to face the world?"

  


* * *

  


Everyone else is sitting around the coffee table when we come out of the bedroom. Astor looks up from her plate, a smear of jam at the corner of her mouth. Dana's apparently been trying to get Harrison to eat butter straight from her finger. My sister is on the other couch, her face flushing scarlet as Faith sits up from reclining with her head in Deb's lap.

Lumen stares back at the circle of people, increasingly fidgety. As usual, I'm unsure of what social nuance I'm failing to observe. Finally Faith shakes her head with a subtle grin. 

"All the people I ever knew slept with vampires?" Faith snags a piece of bacon and leans back into Deb. "Chicks."

Deb looks momentarily startled, then disgruntled as she shifts position to get more comfortable.

"Slayers?" I ask. I'm pretty sure I know the answer. Astor is sending suspicious glares at Lumen from the far end of the couch. Dana remains stationed between them, acting as a shield to keep the peace.

Faith polishes off her bacon in two bites. "What gave it away?" 

My sister looks further appalled. "You mean you --"

"No!" Faith laughs, unable to conceal a small touch of embarrassment.

"Really?" Deb doesn't seem convinced.

"No." Faith sounds more serious as she turns, meeting Deb's gaze. She grins bashfully up at my sister. "Almost."

"Fuck a duck with a pigeon's ass." Deb shakes her head before reaching out to encircle Faith with both arms. She rests her chin on the Slayer's shoulder, wearing a look of intense and furious internal calculation.

"Just saying -- never saw a couple swing the other way." Faith raises her glass of OJ in a toast as she offers me a respectful nod. "Might be a first."

I'm still waiting for a scuffle to break out as the dishes are cleared away. Or worse yet, a conversation. Oddly, it's the second least verbal of our group who breaks the ice.

"She was right." Dana says this with Harrison hanging on her outstretched arm. She smiles down at him, encouraging his further efforts. "It won't be easy."

I realize she's not talking about Harrison. Or to him. I'm still figuring it out when I notice Lumen, sitting with her knees drawn up, looking at the trio of Slayers like a bird cornered by a pack of wildcats.

"The soul makes all the difference." Dana looks over at Lumen, and her weary eyes carry the weight of millennia. "So we've always been told."

Lumen frowns and sits up a little straighter. "And what does that mean?"

"Literally good and evil," Faith says. "But then some stuck up pain in the ass --"

"With impeccable taste in shoes," Dana shoots back. Harrison laughs and keeps trying to pull himself up.

"Had to go and change the rules," Faith concludes. "One vamp boyfriend with a soul wasn't enough. Except the second? She had to start boning him before he put on the white hat. And I don't mean the little foil packet."

"You make it sound all sordid." Dana pouts. She looks like she wants to fold her arms, but doesn't want to send my son flying across the room. I appreciate her restraint.

"You really wanna go there?" Faith cocks an eyebrow, with a mostly subtle sideward glance toward Astor.

Dana snorts and goes back to cooing at Harrison, interjecting the occasional exclamation of awe regarding his gymnastic prowess. Deb looks alternately irritated and perplexed as she sits with Faith's head in her lap, silently watching the proceedings.

"Just give me the bottom line." Lumen looks around the room, her troubled gaze falling in turn upon each Slayer. "I'm a big girl."

"Well -- lemme ask you." Faith sits up, hands clasped in front of her with her elbows on her knees. Her demeanor is not exactly businesslike. More like a guidance counselor, or a life coach.

"When the chips were down." Faith looks at her natural enemy dead on. "Why?"

"I --" Lumen stops. I can see the river of emotions that run through her face as she tries to calculate her trajectory through the conversational minefield.

"I guess..." Lumen shakes her head, her frustration apparent. She looks down at her hand, flexing the fingers, forming a brief fist.

My heart is beating faster as she turns to me.

"I chose you over Darla." Lumen lays it all out for me like a done deal. Naked and afraid. That first part is a metaphor. They tell me I'm getting better at those.

Faith waits for more, finally offering a tiny shrug. "And now?"

"Now." Lumen laughs, sounding shaky as she looks over at the living room window and its tightly drawn curtain. A few tiny ribbons of solar death are still able to leak through.

"Now? I have power." Lumen doesn't look powerful as she looks again around the circle of Slayers. She looks scared to death. And ready to fight for her undead life.

She meets their gaze of judgement, head held high. "Why shouldn't I use it?"

"Very Nietzche." Faith nods, as if in acknowledgment of a particularly good point. "But if you're interested? There's more than one way to get back that soul."

"What good did a soul ever do me?" Lumen gives Faith a wary look. It's the sort of look one gives the barking mad who are likely to start barking any moment.

"You might be surprised." Faith looks like she could expound further. I find myself opening my mouth.

"You could do worse than to have a Code."

Everyone turns to look at me. Except Harrison, who continues to tug on Dana's shirtsleeve.

"It's not a guarantee," I point out. It always feels awkward being the center of attention.

"Nothing in life is," Faith chimes in. "But if you're trying to do the right thing. If you _want_ to --"

Lumen absorbs this for a moment. She looks like she's coming to a decision.

"I want to help you, Dexter." Lumen's voice is gentle as her gaze meets mine. "But I don't need you any more."

"Do you need to help him?" Faith shrugs. "Maybe that's enough."

"I do," Astor says. She clears her throat as the room's attention shifts to her. "I mean -- I need him. We all do," she concludes, looking just a little angry.

Lumen mulls this over for less time than I would have predicted. She still has that suspicious look about her. "So if I live according to your Code --"

"I won't slay you." Faith glances at her fellow Slayers to either side. Dana raises her right and gives a solemn nod. Astor allows herself a tiny smirk, but doesn't hesitate to mimic the peaceful gesture.

I opt for the cautious approach. "Do we still get to snuggle?"

Lumen looks at me like I'm wearing a pink and purple dunce cap. With bells on.

"Why the fuck would we not?"

I give her a weak smile. "Language."

Deb shakes her head, resigned to life in the loony bin.

Dana picks up Harrison, walking over to place him on my lap. She leaves her hands on his shoulders, staring deep into my eyes.

"Remember." Her eyes slide over toward Faith, sitting on the couch. "She doesn't know everything."

"Screw you." Faith's reply sounds automatic.

Dana rolls her eyes, smiles and shakes her head. "Your secret is safe with me."

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" Irritation blossoms in Faith's tone. "He got a blowup sheep or some shit?"

Deb snickers. I glance her way, seeing her quickly wipe the grin from her face.

"You have a dirty mind." Dana smirks and leans down to give Harrison a kiss. I'm not expecting her to plant one on my cheek as well. She gives me a huge smile as she pulls away, standing tall to address the room in general.

"I'd love to stay." Her fond gaze at Astor bears a more than minor tinge of regret. "But there's no place like home."

Faith blinks. "That mean you're actually coming back?"

Dana looks at Faith with infinite love. "I'll never leave you."

A snort from Faith. "That's what I was afraid of."

Dana leans over to punch her in the arm. Faith reaches out to put her in a headlock, sliding off Deb's lap and pulling Dana down to the floor. The two of them tussle a moment, jockeying for position as Deb looks on.

"Thought it was the other way around." Dana grins up at Faith, absolutely fearless. Faith growls and pulls her in for a hug.

Deb appears to be taking this well enough. By the look on her face, she knows the relationship is less eros than agape. But it still hurts when your partner decides someone else is more important.

"Hey -- this ain't the end." Faith lets go of Dana and clambers to her feet. She takes Deb by the hand, adopting a tone of supplication. "You know I can't stay. But --"

Deb's face is unreadable as she looks up. Faith takes a deep breath.

"But I want to be able to come back." Faith searches my sister's face for a clue. "Without causing too much trouble."

Deb wrestles with herself before allowing a reluctant admission. "Can't say you'd be unwelcome."

"Good." Faith looks just a little startled. Then smiles, relieved. "Good."

"I have something I want to do," Dana interjects. Faith shakes her head.

"Don't worry, pipsqueak. We got a few days yet." The Slayer lets go of my sister's hand as she looks over at me, then at Lumen.

"If I were you two? I'd hang up the stakes and holsters." Faith puts her index finger to her lips, blowing smoke from an imaginary barrel. "At least try to live a normal life."

Lumen rolls her eyes. "You're no more normal than I am."

"Beg to differ." Faith's smirk is more friendly than combative. "But I take your point."

Lumen scowls at the possible implied threat.

"And as for him -- he's still young." Faith nods at Harrison, sitting on my knee. "Come next year, he probably won't remember any of this."

I say nothing. Lumen looks back and forth between the two of us, her mistrust more than clear.

"And as long as I'm handing out advice?" Faith looks at me, nodding to indicate Lumen. "I'm bettin' she's gonna want more than snuggles."

I remember what she was saying about the vampire with Batista's name. "Is that a problem?"

Faith's eyebrow reaches lecherous elevation. "You tell me." 

"It's not a problem." Now I sound irritated. Faith chuckles.

"Glad to hear it. Just remember you're dealing with some serious supernatural stamina." Faith shakes her head. "And I'd hate to say that with a lisp."

Dana holds up a shopping bag, dangling it as if to secure Faith's attention. "Don't forget."

"Yeah," Faith smirks. "Don't forget you're older than me." 

"Screw you." Dana gives her a toothy grin.

"So if you like stunning intellectual debate --" Faith turns to Astor with an expectant look. "Come with us? Meet more Slayers?"

Astor looks delighted at the prospect. Among other things.

"I --" Astor sighs. "I want to stay with Dexter."

Faith nods. "It's cool."

"And my brothers," Astor adds. "But -- maybe next year?" She rushes on, worried yet hopeful. "Maybe -- after I graduate?"

"Dude, it's okay. It's not the bad old days anymore." Faith reaches over to squeeze Astor's knee. "You can live your own life."

Astor merely nods, playing it cool. Faith nods back as Dana hands her the shopping bag.

"So I was gonna get you a leather jacket. But..." Faith holds out her hands like a set of scales; one rising as the other falls, then in reverse. "It'd probably make you look too much like a badass. And then every other badass -- or wanna be -- is gonna decide to show the world, hey. You ain't so bad."

Astor nods again, trying to hide her disappointment.

"Besides," Faith continues. "You know what they say."

Astor puzzles for a moment. "What's that?" 

"You become what you pretend to be." Faith reaches into the bag. "So I got you these."

"Wow." Lumen sounds suitably impressed. "I'd say that deserves a handwritten thank you." 

Astor's eyes sparkle like diamonds at the sight of a pair of black Doc Marten platform boots. She holds up her prize in her uninjured hand, turning them this way and that, admiring from all angles.

"Near mint," Faith says. "Just broken in."

"Wow." Astor's voice is reverent with awe. Faith grins, looking back at Dana.

"So what's that one more thing?" Faith snaps her fingers. "Seaquarium?"

"That too." Dana looks over at Astor; the gray in her eyes once more the stormiest of seas. "Actually?"

Astor sits up straighter under the intensity of her gaze. Dana smiles, and it's the saddest I've ever seen.

"I'd like you to do me a favor."

  


* * *

  


Orlando is more crowded than Miami this time of year. Still, it's easy to find an empty picnic bench at the park. I sit under a tree a few feet away, feeling the hole in my belly itch as it heals.

"This is my friend Dana." Astor's attitude is solemn, almost formal. "The one I told you about."

Cody stares up at the dark Amazon that towers over him. Dana's wearing her usual unremarkable uniform of blue jeans and a flannel shirt. Her long, tousled hair tumbles down to obscure a good deal of her face, her dark eyes staring out at the world as if from inside a cave.

"Hi," Cody manages. His nervousness doesn't decrease as she kneels before him, eye to crazy eye. "Astor said...you lost your brother?"

Dana nods. "And my folks."

Cody gulps, trying to contain his fidgeting. Despite the obvious intimidation, his natural sense of chivalry appears to be goading him into action.

"So I said you could be her brother, too." Astor stands next to Cody, her hand on his shoulder. "If you want."

Cody's eyes are enormous as he responds with a silent nod. Dana reaches out as if to hug him, then hesitates.

"Don't want to scare you."

"It's okay." Cody grinds the toe of his sneaker into the grass. I can't tell at this distance, but I'm pretty sure he's blushing.

"Thank you." Dana takes him in her arms and holds him close. Astor looks ready to open the floodgates. 

Dana pulls away, with a look of grave import. 

"Take care of each other." 

I see him wiping away his own tears as she walks toward me, leaving him behind. Doing his best to be a big boy; not entirely sure of what's going on.

"Hey." Astor gets his attention as Dana sits down beside me. Cody turns, eager for a distraction.

"Yeah?"

"I've got good news." Astor pauses, her next words cautious. "But it kind of comes from sad. So I want to tell you. But I don't want to make you more sad."

Cody struggles to process this, and finally nods. Putting on a stiff upper lip.

Astor doesn't start where I expected. "There was a fire at Dexter's apartment."

"Oh." Cody's eyes go big again. "That's bad."

"And the people he sold Mom's house to?" Astor continues. "They found out about Mom."

Cody swallows.

"So they decided they didn't want it." Astor pauses, waiting for a reaction.

Cody looks and sounds less than sure. "Is that bad?"

"Funny how that works out." Astor looks over at me. "Dexter was just thinking his apartment was getting kind of crowded."

Cody frowns, confused. "Who else is there?"

"It's his new girlfriend." Astor rolls her eyes. "I know. I met her last year. I didn't like her." 

Cody appears slightly taken aback. Still, he waits for her to continue.

"But then I did." Astor sighs. "And I still didn't like her. At the same time."

Cody giggles. "That's weird."

"Tell me about it." Astor gives me another look. "And then I mostly liked her. And I kind of thought you would too. And then..."

She reaches into her pocket.

"I still think you're going to like her."

Astor puts her hands on her brother's shoulders and tips his head forward. Metal glints in the sun as she loops a chain around his neck. As she leans back, I see the shape of a cross.

"But don't ever take this off."

"Okay." Cody seems almost afraid to ask. "Does this mean we can live in the old house?"

"If you want." Astor doesn't look away. "If it would make you more happy than sad."

I'm sensing Cody wants to give his sister the world's biggest hug. Naturally, the only reason he doesn't is to keep up the facade of a big strong guy who's overjoyed beyond all measure.

"Yes please." Cody's voice has a little wobble as he stands up straight and puffs out his chest.

"We just have to get your room fixed up again." Astor smiles and ruffles his hair. "I'll be back at the end of the month. Then we can finish moving in."

Cody gazes up at his big sister. The eagerness in his eyes is outweighed only by something I haven't seen since his mother died.

Hope.

"And we can go out on the boat?"

  


* * *

  


It's been a long day.

Longer. The last few months in the life of Dexter Morgan have been a whirlwind like never before. A nightmare and a dream come true. Sometimes all at once.

But I caught a quick nap after we got back from Orlando. Recharged my batteries just enough to make a difference.

The night air over the Atlantic is brisk and refreshing. The _Slice of Life_ cuts through the water, gently rocking up and over each new swell. Astor stands next to me, peering all around, trying to get her bearings.

"Is this it?" She looks up at me, back out over the waves.

"Gulf Stream." I cut the engine as we cross the final marker. Stars shine overhead, a mirror of the ocean below.

Ever since my original dumping grounds were discovered, I've used this place to dispose of my detritus. Until now, with only one other person at my side. Dozens of diabolical deplorables, divided in nice neat packages.

Lumen's hair is ruffled by the wind. She sits in the passenger chair with Harrison on her lap, watching as Astor solemnly presents me with a wooden box.

I don my brand new pair of gloves. It's the work of a few seconds to wipe down each slide with a cloth. There are quite a few of them, but I'm in no hurry. The sun won't rise for hours.

The current opens its jaws. One by one, my trophies vanish. I hold up Jordan and his gang for Lumen to see before they join the rest.

Astor takes a step back, the empty slide box in her hand. Then she skips forward, hurling it with all her might. A very long time passes until we hear a faint splash.

I tap the starter and the engine rumbles to life. Astor stands at the prow like a figurehead, her hair wild and wind-tossed. Lumen leans her head on my shoulder, arms wrapped around me as Harrison gently snores into her chest, secure in his brand new tactical baby carrier. I paid extra for the custom pattern blood spatter.

My appetite for destruction will always be part of me. But the demon world beckons, ripe for plucking. And the Dark Passenger is finally laid to rest. Along with all the spectres of the past.

Harry. Brian.

If you could see me now.

Lumen's kiss is soft against my neck, lingering long enough to make a point. "Can I have a real Bloody Mary for breakfast?"

I pretend to think it over. "Why not?"

Astor sticks out her tongue, making a disgusted face.

The dead may see me, depending. Or they may rest in peace, forever unaware. But the living?

_Sometimes I wonder what it would be like. For everything inside me that's denied and unknown, to be revealed._

Now I know.

My survival no longer depends on secrecy. And I no longer need to hide the truth of who I am. Not from the ones I think I love.

Now -- perhaps for the first time ever -- Dexter is free.

To be the captain of his destiny.

And this is only the beginning.

  


>   
__  
**August 1, 2019 - July 4, 2020**  
  



End file.
